


Bluebells

by kyrene



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-21
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:43:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 80,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrene/pseuds/kyrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He also knew what it sounded like when a man was choking on his own blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Hear Them Ring

It began, as so many of these things did, with a phone call.

"Ar...thur...."

Just his name, breathed softly in two broken syllables. He could barely hear over the buzz of white noise denoting a bad connection and the ragged gust of someone else's breath coming too hard and fast too close to the phone, but he knew Eames' voice.

He also knew what it sounded like when a man was choking on his own blood.

"Eames," he snapped, standing so quickly that he knocked over the chair he had been sitting in. Ariadne looked at him with wide eyes, her mouth forming a silent question, but as the connection clicked off abruptly and alarmingly in Arthur's ear, he ignored her, cursing and ringing the number back as quickly as he could make his phone and his suddenly clumsy fingers work.

The technology bent to his will, but no one picked up, and then it went to voicemail. It had indeed been Eames; his cheerful recorded voice directing the caller to leave a message a distinct counterpoint to the brief, one-word call he had just made.

"Damn it," Arthur snarled, slamming his cell on the desktop, and Ariadne's eyes were huge, her lips rounded in shock.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly, reaching for the discarded phone. Arthur leaned over his laptop, not even taking the time to right his chair as he pulled up information as quickly as he could make his fingers move over the keyboard. "Eames?" She frowned at the display.

"Something's wrong," Arthur replied tightly, barely aware he was speaking. He was occupied, bringing up Eames' cell phone information, getting into the company's GPS, trying to figure out _where_ the call he'd just fielded had originated from. He was a point man. This was child's play for him.

So why were his hands shaking?

"What's wrong?" Ariadne pursued, taking it upon herself to redial Eames' number on Arthur's phone. Not that he minded. Even as he devoured the information he'd brought up on his computer screen with eyes that felt as though they were burning, he hoped that she would have better luck than he'd had, and that Eames would pick up, would laugh, would tell her it had just been some stupid joke, say he was drunk, say _something_....

But there was no Eames, even though Ariadne tried the number three times in a row, then tried dialing it on her own phone, and she was still waiting for Arthur to answer her question, getting more and more visibly agitated and concerned.

"Arthur!"

The two of them, Arthur and Ariadne, were working together because Cobb had been right. That first time he had taken Ariadne under and shown her what she could construct in dreams, when Mal had stabbed her and she had stormed out and Cobb had been so certain that she wouldn't be able to stay away.... Even once the group had finished with the Fischer job and disbanded, each of them with Saito's money in their pockets and no reason to continue entering lucid dreams, Ariadne hadn't been able to stop. Arthur was right here beside her because he had kept track of everyone after the inception job, and he wasn't about to let her do anything on her own. Not when each and every one of their erstwhile team had come to think of her as something of a little sister.

Besides, Cobb would have skinned him if he hadn't joined her and anything had happened. Even though it had been Cobb and Cobb alone who had started her down this road. At least what she was doing now was quasi-legal. And Arthur was here to make certain that she managed it in the safest, quickest, easiest way possible. The creativity, the sheer exuberance, these things he left to her, but they were a joy to see. And he had to admit that he enjoyed helping her with her world building, just as he had done when she had first been starting out.

He must not have kept a close enough eye on what Eames was doing, though, Arthur thought harshly, as he pinned down the man's location. Right smack-dab in the middle of the States, and _what_ was he doing there? What kind of trouble had he gotten into?

"Arthur, please!" Ariadne said loudly, and it was more the note of real panic in her voice than it was the hand she clenched on his shoulder that brought his attention -- at least partially -- back to her.

"What. Is. Wrong?" she asked, overly precisely, fixing him with a wild stare that communicated about as much intensity as he was feeling himself.

With a bit of surprise, Arthur realized that, in large part, his hands were shaking due to the excessive adrenaline that was coursing through his system. His eyesight had narrowed down, dark around the edges as though he had blinkers on, his heart pounding against his breastbone in a hard tattoo. He recognized this sensation; he just wasn't used to feeling it when he didn't have a gun in his hand. It was a simple matter of flight or fight, but he didn't have anywhere to fly, yet. And no one to fight. Yet.

Eames was in the United States and Arthur was in France. He couldn't reach the other man without spending a good eight hours or more on a plane, much less the rest of the travel time it would require. He couldn't be there _right now_ , now, when and where Eames _needed_ him.

"It was a short call," Ariadne continued, her fingers clutching tightly enough to hurt. Arthur focused on the slight sting, using it to collect his thoughts from where they were already zipping ahead, buying plane tickets and finding weapons once he hit U.S. soil. "What did Eames _say_?"

"Just my name," Arthur answered. Ariadne blinked. "Then the phone cut out." Ariadne bit her lip. "There's something very wrong," Arthur completed flatly, then returned to his laptop. He had to get on the next flight to the States, had to speak to all of his contacts in that general vicinity. He could get a search started before he even reached the airport; he _had_ to.

Moving to pull his chair back upright, Arthur noted that Ariadne still had a tight hold on his shoulder. "Ariadne." He placed his hand over hers, squeezed her fingers.

She started, licked her lips, then forced herself to let go. "Are you calling Cobb?"

Arthur frowned and shook his head, sitting down and logging in to find the fastest flight to the States. Price was no object; he still had most of his earnings from the inception job. His only priority was speed.

"I will, then," she said, and she used his phone to do it.

Arthur was so busy booking his flight that he barely noticed.

+++

Ariadne had been, not to put too fine a point on it, _pissed_ when she'd discovered that Arthur hadn't gotten her a plane ticket as well.

"We don't even know if anything is wrong," he told her, which was a lie.

"I don't want you there if I have to kill someone," he said, and that was the truth. So much so that she couldn't argue.

"Call me," she ended up instructing him, hugging him so tightly that he couldn't breathe for a few moments. "Call me every day, or I'll come after you. I swear it."

"I will," he vowed, because he believed that she would do it.

"Don't just call if you have news," she ordered, stepping back and pinning him with a fierce gaze she must have learned from Cobb. Or maybe she'd always been that intense. "Don't you dare."

"All right," Arthur agreed, because if she was willing to stay in France this was a fair request on her part. And because he would have asked the same if their roles had been reversed.

Of course, if their roles had been reversed, Arthur would have insisted on going to the States no matter what. Fortunately for him, Ariadne was more reasonable than he was.

He was pretty sure she was going to contact Saito once he was gone. She'd already called Cobb. If she could get things moving independently of his own efforts, more power to her. But Arthur was going there directly.

He _was_ a point man, after all, the best in the business. Information was his area of expertise. If he couldn't find Eames himself, he didn't deserve the title.

"Aren't you going to tell me," he asked, meeting her bright brown eyes, the same shade as his own and yet nothing alike, "That I'm overreacting?"

She shook her head, and how was it possible that she looked like a schoolgirl at the same time she seemed as ageless, as timeless as a goddess. "I was there, I saw your face," she replied, and her small hands were cold on his arm, fingers burning like ice through his sleeve. She clung tightly, her expression entreating. "You're right; there's something wrong. Bring him back, Arthur."

He couldn't reply, because he didn't want to lie to her again, not about this. And she frowned at him, her eyes flashing, but she didn't make the demand a second time.

+++

"Do you need help?" Cobb asked, only it didn't sound like a question.

"No."

"Bullshit."

"You're not coming."

Cobb was silent. "I'm not," he replied slowly. "Not unless you need me. But I can get you people."

"I'll be fine," Arthur snapped. He wasn't upset that Cobb wasn't coming. He wasn't. Cobb had only just recently returned to his children; he didn't need to be dragged back into anything. And yet.... And yet....

"I've got your back," Cobb said, and he sounded hesitant, as though he understood what Arthur was thinking but couldn't change his priorities. And that was okay, Arthur thought. Logically he knew that. He had no reason to listen to his heart on this matter. Cobb had been through so much already. Arthur had been by his side every step of the way, but Arthur hadn't had anything to lose. Arthur didn't have children, a family. Cobb did. To expect Cobb to be there for Arthur the way Arthur had been there for him wasn't reasonable. It just wasn't.

"Arthur, I've got your back," Cobb repeated. "And if you need me, I'll come. Call me if you need me."

"I will."

After another long pause, Cobb sighed. "I hope you mean that."

"I do." He didn't. If things went badly, people were going to die. Cobb had already been accused of one murder, even if he'd later been exonerated. Arthur wasn't going to risk dragging the man down the path he highly suspected he'd be traveling.

He _wanted_ Cobb with him, but he didn't _need_ him. And, even more than that, he wanted to keep Cobb safe.

"I'll send you someone," Cobb continued, and his voice sounded firmer, now that this awkward moment was gone. Not over with; never that. But past.

"I'll be fine," Arthur replied again, though less sharply this time.

"I can't let you do this alone."

"Just tell them not to get in my way," Arthur bit out. That was as far as he was willing to go.

"Arthur...."

Arthur _hated_ that Cobb's voice sounded almost exactly like his own had sounded when he had said Cobb's name in that horrible period of time directly after Mal had leapt to her death. It _shouldn't_ sound the same.

"I'm at the hotel," he said, which was a lie, since the cab he'd taken from the airport was still a good ten minutes away from the hotel as yet. But he couldn't stand to hear that tone from his closest friend. It sounded as though Eames was already dead. And they didn't know that; they had no way of knowing that.

Cobb's sigh rattled over the miles between them. "Keep me updated," he said, and he sounded affectionate, concerned, and resigned, all at the same time.

"I will."

Arthur hung up without saying goodbye.

+++

Finding Eames was more difficult than it had sounded... and it had already been a needle in a haystack sort of search to begin with.

The GPS had been useful to find where exactly Eames had called from. Unfortunately, this had turned out to be an empty field in the middle of the ass-crack of nowhere. After searching for almost three hours, Arthur had found the cell phone, broken and half buried in the mud, as though someone had stepped on it. There were bloodstains and the grass and weeds all about were smashed down, the soil torn up, but Arthur was unable to find a clear trail out of the field, where someone might have dragged or carried a body.

An _unconscious_ body, he thought sharply, as he got into his rental car and zipped away from the scene. It was a wrench to leave it, the last spot he _knew_ that Eames had been. But Eames wasn't there any longer, and Arthur wasn't going to be able to track the man down if he remained standing blankly in an empty field.

No one fitting Eames' description had turned up at any of the surrounding police stations, morgues, or hospitals. Not that Arthur had expected this last. Whatever had happened, it hadn't been an accident. There was no way that Eames' blood and phone had wound up in that field like that without a second party being involved.

Now it was up to Arthur to find out who this second party was. He was pretty sure he was looking for more than one man; Eames would _not_ have gone down without a fight.

Whether he found this villain or villains before he found Eames or after, it _would_ happen.

Feeling angry and helpless, Arthur returned to his hotel in the early hours of the morning.

+++

"No one I've gotten a hold of knows what Eames was doing after we split up at LAX," Ariadne informed Arthur when he called her. Paris was about eight hours ahead of his time, which meant it was nearing noon there, and so she answered right away. Though he had no doubt she'd have been just as quick to pick up no matter what the hour.

This news wasn't any surprise to Arthur. He hadn't expected that anyone would know where Eames had been or what he'd been doing. Not anyone that Ariadne would have known to contact, anyway. For all she had been involved in something highly illegal and morally questionable, there was a core of innocence to her that none of them would ever have wished to sully. And so far it remained untouched.

"Yusuf offers whatever help he can get you from Mombasa," Ariadne continued. She sounded affectionate but exasperated, which Arthur understood. After all, there wasn't much that Yusuf _would_ be able to do, from that distance, but they both understood and appreciated the sentiment.

"Did you call Saito?" Arthur asked, scrubbing at his eyes wearily. He hadn't slept in well over twenty-four hours and he was definitely jetlagged after flying from Paris to New York, and from New York to Nebraska. Of all places, and he still wondered what Eames had been doing here.

He was more concerned with where Eames was _now_ , though.

"Yes," Ariadne answered, after a short silence. It sounded like a confession, and maybe it was. They shouldn't any of them stayed in contact with Saito once the inception job was concluded. They had all worked together, and had done so fairly well considering the diversity of their personalities and motivations, but once it was over and Fischer had been sent off to dismantle his father's empire, none the wiser that it hadn't been his own idea, they ought to all have gone their separate ways.

Granted, this was somewhat hypocritical for Arthur to think. He'd been working with Ariadne up until a day ago, after all. And he'd unhesitatingly visited Cobb and his kids several times since the Cobb family been reunited, at Cobb's invitation.

And yet, talking to Saito seemed to be something else entirely. Another level.

It wasn't so bad that Ariadne had done it. She was young and enthusiastic and empathetic, and she could get away with a lot more than anyone else could. Arthur wasn't going to judge her, but she was probably aware that he felt as though he should.

"He'll help if he can," she continued after that awkward pause. "All he needs to know is how."

Arthur nodded, even though she couldn't see him, and something tight unknotted in his chest. He didn't depend on anyone else. He didn't want to _have_ to depend on anyone else. Yet to know that someone as powerful and wealthy as Saito was willing to help.... And not out of obligation, but because he chose to.... It was a comforting feeling.

"Thank you," he said softly, and he knew that Ariadne would understand what he meant.

"You should get some sleep," she told him.

They both knew that he was going to do no such thing.

"Take care," Arthur instructed absently, opening his laptop and pretending not to hear Ariadne's heavy sigh blowing in his ear.

"Good night, Arthur," she said, and she sounded as much exasperated as she did fond.

+++

Finding Eames was a lot more difficult than it had sounded, needle in a haystack or not. After a week had passed with no leads and no news it was starting to seem impossible.

Arthur wasn't about to give up. He'd called in more favors, and dredged up more information on Eames -- the man's background, his recent business, his friends and enemies -- then he'd ever thought could exist. Some things he found that he'd wished he'd known years ago, when they had first met or at any time in between. Some things he found he felt guilty for now knowing; things that Eames would never have wanted him to discover, had obviously wanted kept secret. But he had yet to find anything that would lead him to whomever had taken the forger.

Arthur refused to believe that Eames was dead. Even though Ariadne sounded more and more subdued and tearful each time he called her. Even though Cobb spoke to him in a funereal tone of voice that made his teeth grind, and increasingly threatened to come and join him, as though he thought that Arthur was going to need his _emotional support_ or something. Arthur firmly stamped down that notion each time that Cobb mentioned it, and yet it kept coming up, until, friends or not, Arthur very nearly decided to stop calling Cobb altogether.

Arthur was dogged, determined. He was aware that Cobb thought he was being foolishly stubborn. But he would not give up. Eames had called him for help. Arthur wasn't going to just give up and go away, forget about that call. That wasn't the kind of man he was. There was no way he'd have been able to live with himself if he'd contemplated it, even for a moment.

And then, just when all hope seemed lost, every trail cold, Saito's network turned something up. A rumor, nothing more, but it was good enough for Arthur, and the more they looked into it, the more promising it seemed.

Arthur had weapons, the best that Saito's proxy could supply. He had back-up, also on loan from Saito. He had a location and a near certainty that he would find Eames there.

He still didn't know who or why. But if he found Eames, these things didn't so much matter.

And anyone who got in his way... well, they would die.

It wouldn't be the first time Arthur had shed someone else's blood, wouldn't be the first time he had taken another man's life. But it might be the first time he had done so with such righteous justification, with so much personal satisfaction.

+++

It began, if Arthur was being painfully honest, long before that one abrupt phone call.

It had really begun the first time the two of them had met.

The thing was, something that he hadn't even realized before getting to know Eames, Arthur wasn't very often honest with himself.

But there was always time to change that.

As long as there was life, there was change. And Arthur knew that life was nothing if it was not a series of beginnings.


	2. Means Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it came right down to the moment, Arthur trusted that Saito's network had the correct information. He trusted in the weapons that Saito's people had provided for him. He did not, however, think that he trusted Saito's men at his back.

When it came right down to the moment, Arthur trusted that Saito's network had the correct information. He trusted in the weapons that Saito's people had provided for him.

He did not, however, think that he trusted Saito's men at his back.

It wasn't a lack of trust in Saito. And he knew that Saito would not employ people he felt were in any way less than trustworthy. But anyone, _anyone_ could be bought, bribed, or blackmailed. And Arthur didn't truly trust anyone -- not even himself.

This lack of trust in Saito's people, however, turned out to be a non-issue when it came time for the breaking down of doors and the charging to the rescue. Because that was the point at which Saito himself showed up. Dressed to the nines and only _slightly_ more well armed than Arthur himself.

As he carefully schooled his features to hide his momentary surprise, Arthur reflected that he probably _shouldn't_ have been surprised by this.

After all, he'd already been witness to plenty of evidence as to how hands-on Saito could be. Not only had the man traveled to Mombasa personally to keep an eye on Cobb when he could just as well have set some men on his tail, but then he had insisted on coming along when they attempted the inception, despite the danger.

Though, to be fair, they hadn't realized just _how_ dangerous it was going to be before they got into Fischer's subconscious, found that it had been militarized, and Saito had already been shot and wounded.

Still, none of this seemed to have quenched the man's spirit of adventure... or perhaps his overwhelming need to _control_ everything that he had a stake in. This was a mindset that Arthur could very easily understand and somewhat sympathize with. The fact that this was happening in reality, that there were real bullets in their guns which would actually kill people if fired, didn't seem to bother Saito in the slightest.

Then again, Saito hadn't gotten where he was by being squeamish. Everything that Arthur had dug up on the man before their initial attempted extraction -- the one he, Cobb, and Nash had been hired by Cobol Engineering to perform -- had only underlined this fact.

Arthur hadn't really been expecting that Saito would be willing to get his own hands dirty, not like this. But Arthur was definitely glad to see him.

"I am here to help a friend," Saito told him, his heavily-accented yet elegant voice just as smoky and smooth as Arthur remembered it being. There was small doubt that he had seen Arthur's startlement, no matter how well masked, and he was replying to that.

"I would do the same for you," Saito continued, with a small smile that didn't quite reach the corners of his eyes. "Because I know that you would do the same for me."

Arthur gave this bold declaration a moment's thought, then he nodded tightly. He didn't know that he agreed with Saito's assessment, but neither did he disagree. He didn't think that he could know _what_ he would have done had their situations been reversed unless or until it happened. He was pleased that Saito had such respect for his higher principles, however, and the larger part of him sincerely hoped that the man was right.

"Thank you," he replied simply. Because what else could he say, when a multi-billionaire with companies, world leaders, and probably entire _countries_ in his immaculate breast pocket was willing to come and offer his personal assistance?

Saito dipped his head in return, a brief nod, an acknowledgement, but his expression clearly stated that Arthur's thanks were meaningless. That this was simply a matter of course.

And maybe it was.

+++

Whether due to cunning, arrogance, or mere stupidity, the men who had taken Eames had remained in the area; in the same town, no less.

Arthur was most inclined to blame that latter when he, Saito, and Saito's people -- who Arthur found he _could_ trust when Saito himself was there -- burst into the ramshackle house the men were using as a hideout and discovered that they had posted no lookouts, no guards, and that all three of them were hooked up to a PASIV device.

As was Eames, which meant that Arthur and Saito were in the right place after all.

Arthur was more enraged than he was relieved once his vision had cleared of red enough that he could take in the details of Eames' imprisonment.

Because it was obvious, from the ropes binding his wrists and ankles tightly to the frame of the bed he was lying upon, from his battered, bedraggled appearance, that Eames was by no stretch of the imagination here willingly.

Also, he looked like hell.

It had been a week, and Eames clearly hadn't received any care or consideration from his captors within that period of time. There was blood crusted at one temple, so old and thick that it was almost black; probably from when he had been attacked in the empty field, just before or after he had called Arthur. He was very nearly sporting a full beard instead of his usual dusting of controlled stubble. And he already appeared thinner, undernourished to a dangerous extent.

Arthur had frozen upon entering the room, which was the only thing that kept him from erupting into misplaced violence when Saito placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"Go to Eames," Saito directed smoothly, giving Arthur a small shove in that direction. "My men and I will take care of the... remainder."

He made it sound as though he was speaking of something foul, something filthy. Arthur certainly wasn't going to disagree with this appellation, or with the complex emotions behind it.

Nor was he going to resist the external propulsion towards Eames, which got him moving when he had been stuck in place, rigid with shock and horror. This was why he was here, after all. And now that he _was_ here, he had discovered that Eames needed him more than Arthur ever could have anticipated.

Arthur paid no attention as Saito's people unhooked Eames' captors from the PASIV device. He could hear muffled sounds as they dragged them into the other room. Whether the bastards were awakened by this jostling or remained sedated, Arthur really didn't care. All that he cared about was the still figure stretched on the bare, flat mattress before him.

One of Saito's men moved unobtrusively to slice the ropes, swiftly and neatly freeing Eames; arms first, then his legs. The flesh that had been beneath the ropes was raw, abraded, but Arthur was far more concerned with the fact that Eames was still hooked up to the PASIV device.

"I need to go in after him," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Saito, who was standing in the doorway, keeping an eye on both the unconscious captive and his captors.

"I will stand guard," Saito promised easily, and the set of his jaw, the fire in his dark eyes were as much a comfort as the spoken vow and the large gun held ready in his capable hand.

Arthur nodded sharply, swiftly seeking out a fresh needle and strapping it to his wrist.

He set the timer to five minutes. That would give him an hour under. Whether this would be too much time or too little, he didn't know, but if anything went wrong or if there was any reason to hurry he could always manufacture a kick. Some might say that Arthur lacked imagination, but he was nothing if not resourceful. No one could argue that.

He wanted to get Eames on his way to receiving medical attention _immediately_ , get the very real danger of dehydration and the potential for infection dealt with. Even a five minute delay seemed intolerable.

But even more intolerable was the idea of leaving Eames at the mercy of whatever dream he had been trapped in by the men who had been holding him. Arthur had no clue what to expect, but considering the condition in which he had found Eames' actual physical body, it was highly unlikely to be pleasant. Eames might wake naturally once removed from the PASIV device... but he might not. Arthur wasn't about to take that chance.

"Five minutes," he informed Saito, settling himself into a folding chair that was still warm from the body heat of the man who had been slouched in it when they had entered the room. Arthur spared an instant to feel revulsion over this fact, but he had more important things to be focused on.

Saito nodded, Arthur closed his eyes, the hiss of the PASIV device curled around his ears, that familiar heavy lassitude weighed down his limbs, and then he was sliding into the dream.

+++

The world around him was stark, all in shades of black and white.

Arthur wasn't sure what he had been expecting when he had joined the interrupted dream, but whatever it had been, it was not what he found.

Standing perfectly still, weapon at the ready, Arthur looked around warily. He was in a small room, no more than ten feet by ten feet, empty, its walls and floor made of concrete. It didn't seem to have a ceiling, or if it did, it was very high and lost in the darkness. There was a small window set about twelve feet up on one wall, bars slicing stark and straight across a cloudy, moonlit sky. There was one door directly opposite the window, a huge, heavy iron rectangle that was both locked and barricaded with a thick wooden bar. Arthur wondered whether it was meant to keep somebody inside... or somebodies _out_.

He suspected that it might serve both functions, as he heard distant shouting coming from somewhere outside the room, and as he turned and saw Eames.

He hadn't been expecting to find the man immediately upon entering the dream.

He also hadn't been expecting to see this Eames, a ruffled, battered reflection of his true self in the waking world, lying on his back, face slack, one arm outstretched, pale wrist hooked up to a shiny silver PASIV device.

Arthur cursed, shifting the gun he was carrying to his left hand. The floor was beginning to rumble beneath his feet and shiver-thin cracks appeared in the walls, darting upward. Considering that Eames was almost certainly the subject in this dream, that those were probably his projections that Arthur could very faintly hear yelling outside the room, this meant that someone else had been the dreamer. And now that the dreamer was detached from the PASIV device in the real world, probably being awakened by Saito's men at this very moment, the dream was crumbling.

And Eames was still locked in it, was in fact trapped another level down.

Arthur didn't even pause to give it a moment's consideration. Shoving his gun into the waistband of his slacks, he reached for a spare needle. Here in the dream, he didn't need to worry about disease, and so he simply snatched up one of the two leads that hung loose from the case.

Lying down beside Eames, he prepared to go after the man.

He had come this far in an effort to rescue Eames. He wasn't about to bow out now. Not when Eames needed him.

Not when there was finally, after a week of fruitless searching, something that Arthur could _do_.

+++

At first Arthur thought that something had gone wrong and the PASIV device hadn't worked.

But then he took a better look around. The room was similar, but darker and it was somewhat... foggy around the edges. Maybe because the dreamer was gone. Or maybe it was due more to a lack of imagination -- that this level so closely resembled the previous level made this seem a distinct possibility.

At any rate, Arthur was here in the dark room alone. There was no window, the door was open... and there was no Eames.

Nodding to himself, Arthur tugged his gun free and prowled out into the shadow-filled hallway outside the room.

He was surrounded by dead silence, punctuated by the occasional crack of breaking stone or concrete somewhere nearby, indicating that this level was no more stable than the previous level. Water dripped distantly. But there was no shouting, no sign of any projections. This worried Arthur more than he wanted to admit. Perhaps it simply meant that the men who'd had Eames down here had done a better job barricading themselves away... but there were other, more troubling possibilities.

It appeared that Arthur was in a good old fashioned dungeon, he decided after a few moments. He was also stuck in a loop; something he realized almost as quickly. When he had passed the same distinctive stain on the wall for the second time in under a minute, he realized that there was very little to the place, and that he was going to have to change his method of searching.

Instead of looking for an exit, he began to open every door that he passed. The cell he had been in when he had entered this dream was the only one that had been open. Thankfully, none of the others were locked the way the door in the first level of dreaming had been, though they were not easily opened. Each door was just as heavy as it looked and their thick hinges squealed loudly in protest as he yanked at them, but Arthur persevered.

Because what other choice did he have?

By the time he had thrown all his weight into wrenching open the fourth door, when he could see that he was only two doors away from meeting up with that first room again, the ground beneath him was definitely quaking, and small pebbles were rolling down the dank walls like stony tears. This dream was still a ways from collapsing, but it was definitely getting there.

This room, however, proved to be the one he was looking for.

Arthur wished that he could feel more of a sense of triumph and less a churning of his stomach when he fixed his eyes on the figure hunched in the corner of the cell, though.

"Eames." He kept his voice low as he stepped into the room. His instincts were screaming at him to be careful, be alert, even though the men who had placed Eames here were gone and wouldn't be coming back. Neither was there any sign of angry projections. It was only himself and Eames here.

Eames, who was chained to the wall he was curled back against.

Eames, who was a mess of blood and bruises so all-encompassing that it was difficult to see the man beneath the damage.

Eames, who had pulled into himself, hunching away from Arthur as he knelt carefully beside him.

"Eames," Arthur breathed, involuntarily, more to assure himself that he had found the man than to try to gain his attention. He reached out a hand, not really surprised by its trembling, and very carefully rested his fingertips on Eames' shoulder.

Eames whimpered and flinched away. This was so unlike the cocky forger Arthur knew that he found himself at a loss.

"Ar... thur?"

The breathy, broken syllables were so similar to the phone call that had originally propelled Arthur on this rescue mission that he felt his hackles rising. But this was indeed Eames, not some elaborate illusion. This was Eames, peering at him now from beneath blood-soaked bangs, barely able to crack his eyes open for the puffy bruising of the delicate flesh around them. Some of the damage was fresh, but some was old, and Arthur wondered with a hard wrench just how long those bastards had had Eames down here, and just what they had been doing to him -- besides the obvious, that was.

"I'm here," he assured Eames, scooting closer, but afraid to touch the man anywhere else, since Eames seemed to be nothing more than one full-body wound. "I'm really here," he added, for all the good it might do, when he could see the distrust, the suspicion, the despair in Eames' dark eyes.

"If--" Eames choked, and Arthur tried not to recoil from the blood that hit the front of his shirt, instead reaching forward and gently thumbing the majority it off of Eames' chin as best he could. He reminded himself that this was just a dream, that this damage wasn't real.... But he also kept in mind that it _felt_ real to Eames, that in this moment Eames was experiencing exactly the amount of damage that it looked as though he was suffering from. He wasn't in danger of dying, not in the waking world, but he was clearly in a lot of pain.

"If you're really here," Eames managed to get out, his normally raspy voice even more hoarse, as though he hadn't used it in a while... or as though he had screamed his throat raw... "Then, p-please... kill me."

Arthur blinked, his mouth falling open to protest immediate and loudly. But then he realized that Eames must _know_ that he was dreaming, and so he had to be aware that the quickest way to end his suffering was to die here and awaken on the next level.

At least so Arthur sincerely hoped. One of Eames' defining traits had always been his powerful sense of self preservation. If his obvious torture at the hands of his captors had stripped him of that, then what else might he have lost?

Death in a dream wasn't Arthur's favored way of awakening. It certainly wasn't anything he wanted to do to Eames. But looking into those fever-bright eyes, seeing the spreading bruises that took over most of the man's face, and noting that not only was Eames' nose broken but one cheekbone had been shattered, with who knew what other damage to the rest of his body, he decided that he couldn't take the time to set up a kick, to try and put it into effect. If such a thing would even have been possible, here in a small cell, with Eames chained to the wall.

His gun was heavy in his hand, but Eames' sigh of relief was real. And when Eames closed his eyes, his expression as peaceful as it could be when it was also drawn in pain, it was a little easier for Arthur to pull the trigger.

As soon as Eames slumped limp and loose on the filthy floor, Arthur raised the hot barrel of the gun and fired into his own skull.

Because not only did he desperately need to follow Eames back up to the first level of the shared dream, but he also needed to get away from the sight of Eames' dead body.

The fact that it had been a true release was small comfort.

And the fact that it had been Arthur who had killed him made it so much worse.

+++

Arthur blinked "awake" on the first level of dreaming, staring blankly up at the darkness swimming above him for two or three heartbeats. There was phantom pain lancing through his skull, fading quickly but momentarily distracting.

Then he remembered where he had been, and why, and what had happened there.

He sat up abruptly, looking around, searching frantically for Eames.

When he had gone under, Eames had been lying nearby, hooked to the PASIV device Arthur had also found beside the supine man. Now, there was the gleaming silver case, here was Arthur, but Eames....

At a small noise behind him, Arthur turned, gun at the ready.

Just as quickly as he had raised it, he lowered it, setting it carefully on the shuddering floor. He didn't need it. Here was Eames, in the cell with him, pressed back into a corner. Only... only not any Eames that Arthur had seen before.

When Arthur had gone under, into the second level of dreaming, the Eames in this room had been an echo of the real Eames; a little less malnourished and unshaven, since he had undoubtedly been created from the man's mental image of himself, though the blood on his temple had been there.

That was not the Eames that Arthur had awakened to.

Arthur had seen Eames many different ways. He had seen Eames masquerading as a voluptuous blonde siren, more than once. He had seen Eames flawlessly forge a rock star, a cleaning lady, a drill sergeant, and, once, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. He had seen Eames wearing plaid and paisley at the same time, and he had seen Eames in Savile Row bespoke.

When Arthur and Eames had met for the first time, Eames had been the same age that Arthur was now. But when he had been digging into Eames' deeply buried, carefully hidden past while searching for him during the last week, Arthur had stumbled across old photographs, so he knew exactly what -- who -- he was looking at right now.

Arthur was facing a teenaged Eames. Fifteen year old Eames, to be exact. Who had gone by a different name at that time in his life, his given name. Who had still been thirteen years away from meeting Arthur.

Arthur wondered whether Eames recognized him, knew him now. There was too much fear filling those wide hazel eyes for Arthur to say whether there was either recognition or a lack of it there as well.

"Eames?" he rasped hesitantly, ignoring the way the floor was shifting beneath his knees as the dream deconstructed further, focusing instead solely on the youth before him.

There was a sudden flicker in those dark eyes, and then a slender body struck Arthur in the chest, wiry arms wrapping around his ribs, tumbling both of them to the floor. Arthur's left elbow struck the silver case of the PASIV device hard enough to numb it as he went down, but he paid this no mind.

Evidently Eames remembered him. Thank God. Arthur didn't know what he'd have done if Eames had gotten lost in his own mind, mentally regressed to a point before he'd been captured and tortured. Arthur had heard of such things happening before, to people in their "profession", and it had never ended well. He would never have wished that on Eames.

Arthur shifted them both, awkwardly but insistently, until he was sitting upright with young-Eames curled in his lap. It was strange, being larger than Eames, who not only physically outweighed Arthur in reality, but who had always been larger than life, and usually louder as well. But it felt... right.

Well, as "right" as anything in this terrible, fucked up situation could feel.

Arthur held Eames carefully but closely. He had to remind himself that Eames on this level of dreaming wasn't damaged; at least not physically. He could feel Eames' nose, sharp and pointed, a little bit cold, against the line of his neck. He could feel hot tears, cooling as they trickled down his skin. The body in his arms was shaking, and he rubbed Eames' bony back slowly, soothingly.

"It's all right," he murmured, even though it wasn't.

"I'm here," he said. Which he was.

Arthur wondered, not for the first time, whether Eames had a totem. He had always assumed not, since Eames was a forger. If Eames ever doubted whether he was in reality or not, all he had to do was try to take on a different face. Even if he was trapped in someone else's dream he should be able to do so. In the waking world, not so much.

Of course, in this case, it probably wouldn't have mattered to Eames whether he was dreaming or not. What had happened to him had already happened and was going to remain with him whether he was awake or dreaming.

Arthur held Eames close, tucked safely under his chin, and watched as powdery grey dust cascaded down the walls, followed by pebbles, then larger chunks of masonry. The dream was crumbling around them. He could no longer hear the shouts of angry projections, but this might just have been because the rumble of stone grinding against stone was growing ever louder and drowning it out. He wasn't about to shoot Eames in the head again; especially not when Eames was in the form of a too-thin, lanky, vulnerable teenage boy with so much fear in his eyes already. Especially not when Eames was in his arms and neither of them was at all inclined to let go.

Either the time Arthur had allotted in the waking world would run out or the dream would fall completely to pieces, waking them that way.

"Arthur?"

The query, his name, not broken but barely breathed, whispered against the flesh of his neck, the hot-moist gust sending gooseflesh skittering over his body. But he held himself still, didn't cease the careful spirals of light pressure he was rubbing into Eames' back.

"Yes?" he prompted softly.

"Are you really here?"

It was strange to hear Eames' accent, his inflections, in such a youthful tone. Not that Eames' had ever before sounded so wary, so trepidatious; not that Arthur had ever heard him, at any rate.

"I am," he replied firmly. Eames' hair was soft underneath his chin, free of product and more than a little flyaway. Arthur smiled slightly, even though now was most certainly not the time. "I'm here. We're in the first level of dreamsharing. Saito and I came to rescue you. Once we wake up, I'll get you to a hospital."

Eames was silent for so long that Arthur didn't think he was going to say anything at all. Chunks of concrete the size of Arthur's fist were beginning to fall. One glanced off his shoulder -- not hard enough to hurt, but closer than any had been yet.

"I hope you're real," Eames finally said, sounding so small and lost that Arthur felt his heart clench. The Eames he had always known would have done anything to keep Arthur from seeing, hearing him like this. Would never have let himself be this vulnerable. Would never have sought out comfort so desperately and openly.

"What did they do to you?" he asked.

It had almost been a rhetorical question. He hadn't really expected an answer, had thought that Eames might still be too confused, too distraught. Might not believe that Arthur was really here, despite his assurances.

But, as always, Eames managed to confound Arthur's expectations, to rise above them.

"They kept taking me under," Eames answered, so quietly Arthur could barely hear him, speaking into Arthur's collar as he ducked his head lower, but not pulling away. His arms were still locked so tightly around Arthur's chest that they almost constricted his breathing, but Arthur didn't mind. "Taking me down here, then down to the second level. Seeing how many different ways they could hurt me, how long they could keep me alive, and then coming up with different ways to kill me. Then they did it all over again."

Arthur did the math in his head quickly. They'd had Eames for a week now. Even factoring in time for eating, sleeping, and other mundanities in reality....

"Oh God," he gasped, feeling his features drawn with the horror that swelled to fill him.

Incredibly, Eames let out a weak chuckle, and shifted slightly in his arms, settling his head more comfortably on Arthur's shoulder. "Lucky for me the bastards didn't have much imagination."

"Eames...."

"Still. Being hurt.... Being killed.... So many... so many...."

Arthur held Eames close as he faltered, choked, and dissolved into tears again. The walls were coming down more quickly now, cracks wide enough that he could have put his arm into them appearing, branching up from the floor toward the collapsing ceiling. Arthur could feel small stones hitting his head and shoulders and the floor lurched underneath them both.

"Are you really here, Arthur?" Eames asked, and Arthur heard him despite the sound of the cell they were in breaking to pieces all around them.

"I am," he replied evenly.

"I'm not going anywhere," he vowed earnestly, holding Eames as tightly as Eames was holding him. "Not here and not in the real world."

Eames whispered something into his shirtfront, but Arthur missed it.

And before he could ask Eames to repeat himself, the world around them shattered into a million jagged pieces, propelling them out of dreaming and into waking.

+++

The moment he woke, Arthur was out of the chair and bending over Eames.

His breath was coming hard, as though he had been running, though he didn't know why, and his hand was cold where he pressed it to Eames' cheek. As chilled as his fingers were, though, Eames' flesh was cooler.

"Dammit, Eames!" he gritted, wanting to smack Eames' cheek lightly, cause him to open his eyes, ascertain that the man was back in the waking world along with him, but not daring to. Both because of the violence that Eames had been suffering inside the dream, and because of the head wound that he had taken a week ago. "Wake up!"

It was really only a second or two, but it seemed so much longer... then Eames' eyes cracked open, just a slit, lashes fluttering wildly, dark gaze unfocused. His lids were nearly as bruised as they had been in the second level dream, though less swollen, and Arthur almost felt a sense of deja vu as Eames finally met his gaze.

"Are you really here?" Arthur asked, in echo of Eames' words to him in both dream layers. His hand was still cupping Eames' jaw, the beard prickling his palm, but he didn't let go. He _couldn't_ let go.

Eames' mouth moved, his normally plush pink lips dry and cracked with dehydration, but no sound came out. He was meeting Arthur's gaze, though, foggy but lucid, and Arthur felt a little of the tension leave his shoulders.

Just a little, though. Because he still remembered what young-Eames had told him had been done to him, in the dream world. Over the extended period of a week, stretched out even longer, longer than Arthur wanted to think about. And yet he couldn't think about anything else.

Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised when, within four seconds of waking, Eames' eyes rolled back, his lids slid shut, and his head lolled loose on the pillow. He was unconscious, and Arthur was only glad, because it meant that he wasn't suffering right now.

It also freed Arthur to do something that he very badly needed to.

Rising to his feet, he found that his knees were wobbling. His hand was steady, though, as he walked back into the other room and put one bullet between the eyes of each of the three men who had been holding, torturing, _killing_ Eames over the course of the past week. Even with his silencer the shots cracked explosively in the small room.

Saito stared at Arthur a moment, as his men exclaimed and dropped the now dead bodies with what Arthur felt to be a distinct lack of discipline.

"That seemed a bit excessive," Saito said mildly, as though he wasn't standing there with blood spattered on his lapel now.

"It really wasn't," Arthur replied shortly. He was surprised that he was able to form words through the flood of murderous rage that was surging through him, overwhelming his mind even after the men were dead.

"We were going to question them; discover why they were doing this," Saito informed Arthur, but he didn't really seem all that put out. His dark gaze was fixed on Arthur, steady and unflinching. Arthur didn't think he was imagining that he read as much sympathy and understanding in Saito's eyes as he did irritation.

Arthur didn't answer. There was no answer he could give.

The men had had to die.

Arthur had had to kill them.

Now they were dead, and only one thing was left that mattered.

Spinning sharply on his heel, leaving it to Saito to deal with the "remainder", the clean up, Arthur returned to the dirty little bedroom.

His place was by Eames' side, and he wasn't going to leave it. Wasn't going to leave Eames.

Not for anything.


	3. Is At An End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they had been inside the disintegrating dream Arthur had promised Eames that he would take him to the hospital, and at the time he had very much meant it. What actually happened, however, once they had both awakened was this:

When they had been inside the disintegrating dream Arthur had promised Eames that he would take him to the hospital, and at the time he had very much meant it. What actually happened, however, once they had both awakened was this:

Saito whisked both Arthur and Eames away in his shiny black sedan, leaving it to his men to clean up after them.

Saito drove straight to the closest airport and the three of them boarded his own personal jet.

As the plane taxied down the runway, they got Eames' settled into Saito's private quarters, under the care of Saito's own personal physician.

"It will be neater than dealing with the local authorities," Saito said calmly, shrugging out of his blood-stained jacket.

Arthur couldn't argue that. Even though he had collected Eames' things from his hotel room within his first day of arriving in town -- including the man's passport and other papers -- it was unlikely that they could have checked Eames into any hospital in the condition he was in without the police being called. Saito could have taken care of things even then, of course, but it was far more simple to skip that part entirely.

Also, the more quickly they got away from Nebraska, the happier Arthur would be. He still had no idea what Eames had been doing there, he had never been there before himself, and he had absolutely no intention of ever, _ever_ returning.

"Where would you like for me to take you?" Saito, in his shirtsleeves, asked, as the jet queued up for take off. It wouldn't be a very long wait; this was a small airport.

Arthur gave the question a moment's serious consideration, but there was really only one answer he could give. If he made any other choice, Ariadne might kill him. Worse, she would never forgive him.

"Paris," he replied shortly. It may not be ideal -- Arthur had no home there, had been staying in a hotel while working with Ariadne -- but Ariadne was there and it would be safe. Both Arthur and Saito would see to that last.

Saito's smile caught in the corners of his eyes, tight but sincere, and he moved away to speak to his pilot.

Freed by this, Arthur went back to join Eames. Because that was where he wanted, where he _needed_ to be.

And there Eames was, looking even more ragged and dirty against the backdrop of Saito's expensive sheets. He lay, still and senseless, hooked up to an IV, the wound on his temple already cleaned and bandaged. The attentive physician was just beginning to disinfect and wrap the abrasions ringing his wrists.

Arthur sat beside Eames on the bed, ignoring the scowl that Saito's doctor fixed on him, and took one of Eames' hand in his own. It was limp and cool in his grip, but Eames was here and he was alive. That was what really mattered.

Right now, that was _all_ that mattered.

+++

The flight was long and this gave Arthur ample time to reflect.

To reflect and to regret. The two were so often couched together.

Arthur regretted....

He regretted not keeping closer tabs on what Eames was doing and where he had gone once the Fischer job had ended. There was no reason that he should have done so, of course, but he still felt that he _should_ have.

He regretted that despite all his best efforts, he hadn't been able to find Eames until Saito had stepped in and done it for him. That, he _should_ have been able to do.

Perhaps most of all Arthur regretted, truly regretted having killed Eames' captors so quickly, so painlessly. He ought to have let them live, allowed Saito to question them, then taken them under, into their own endless dreams of torture, pain, and death. Over and over, the way they had done to Eames.

This wasn't vindictive. This wasn't petty. This was about vengeance and payback. Well-deserved vengeance and well-earned payback.

Unfortunately, it was also completely impossible now, thanks to Arthur's rage and impulsive actions.

There were other things that Arthur regretted... but they were unformed, imprecise. Emotions and memories rather than actualities. And he was too concerned with looking after Eames to give them the attention they deserved.

Perhaps he didn't _want_ to dwell on these things. Even though he knew he was going to have to face them eventually.

But right now... right now all of his focus was on Eames. And he didn't bother to wonder over exactly _why_.

Because that, at least, didn't need to be analyzed. It just was.

+++

They were five hours into the flight to Paris, and Arthur didn't know where Saito had gotten to.

But since Arthur was curled up on the bed beside Eames, honestly, he couldn't bring himself to much care. This was Saito's jet, but he had ceded his bed to Eames, and by extension Arthur. Saito was a big boy, a major player in the business of world domination, and he could take care of himself.

Arthur supposed vaguely that he should have found a queen-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets in the back of a jet a bit incongruous, but it was Saito's plane. Saito was more a pragmatist than a hedonist, but he also proven, more than once, that he had a powerful appreciation for the finer things in life.

With the help of Saito's physician -- who didn't speak much English, but who had warmed up to Arthur a little once she was finished checking Eames over and binding his wounds, once Arthur was no longer unrepentantly getting in her way -- he got Eames stripped out of his filthy clothing, then sponged off as well as they could manage without ruining the sheets, and, finally, shaved.

That last had been the doctor's idea, but Arthur had been just as glad. The beard was a tangible reminder of how long Eames' had been tied up, imprisoned, held captive. It was also personally unsettling to Arthur. He was used to almost always seeing Eames with some stubble, true, but not with an actual beard and mustache. He found that he didn't like it. And even though he readily acknowledged that it was selfish of him to focus on his own feelings on the matter, he didn't think that Eames would have protested this enforced grooming had he been conscious for it.

It was strange, Arthur thought wearily, to look at Eames and see him more clean-shaven than he had been in four years, his face lax in sleep, his body resting loose and vulnerable against the rich beddings. It almost felt like a violation, watching Eames sleep like this, unaware, rendered helpless and weak.

He almost wished that he could bring himself to feel guilty for being witness to this lapse.

Immediately after the physician had deemed her work finished and left the small alcove housing the bed, Arthur had stripped to his slacks and undershirt and curled up on the mattress beside Eames. This also felt something like taking a liberty, but, again, Arthur didn't much care.

He reasoned that he was here to look out for Eames, to protect him. And from what had happened in both layers of the dream, from what Eames had said to Arthur and how he had clung to him, Arthur didn't think that he would have been unwelcome here if Eames _had_ been awake and aware. He liked to think that Eames would have requested his presence if he'd had the ability to do so.

He was pretty sure he was right.

But he doubted he'd do anything differently even if he was wrong.

+++

They were five hours and twenty minutes into the flight before Eames stirred and opened his eyes.

Arthur almost missed it, on the verge of drifting off to sleep himself, but he jolted to full alertness the moment Eames twitched beside him.

"Eames," he murmured, bending over the man, pressing a hand lightly to one side of Eames' face, his thumb tracking over Eames' cheekbone -- not the one that had been shattered in the dream. He wasn't sure that touching Eames was the best idea, but even if Eames reacted badly, he would be too weak to do anything harmful to either of them.

This wasn't exactly a pleasant thought, but it _was_ the truth.

Eames didn't react badly. In fact, if anything, the sound of Arthur's voice, the warmth of Arthur's hand on his face seemed to sooth him. He quieted, and his gaze was easier as he turned his head slightly, seeking out Arthur's eyes.

There was a bedside lamp, burning, low but offering enough light to see by. Arthur had thought passingly that it was probably there to illuminate any romantic trysts that Saito might engage upon while flying, but since that supposition had no relation to his own experiences in the man's bed, he didn't allow it to make him feel awkward. The linens were clean -- or had been, before they had laid Eames' battered body on them -- and he and Eames had their privacy; that was all that mattered.

And _now_ all that mattered was that Eames was conscious again.

Arthur searched those dark eyes, aware that he was still gently cupping the side of Eames' face but reluctant to remove his hand.

"Are--" Eames' voice emerged in a broken crack, and Arthur hurt for him.

Immediately grasping the problem, he slid one arm behind Eames' head and neck, raising him a little, and grabbed the glass of water that the doctor had left on the bedside table with his other hand. The doctor hadn't known much English, but Arthur hadn't needed her stilted lecture to be aware of the need to get Eames as hydrated as possible, as quickly as possible. The IV drip was a start, it was true but oral absorption was a quicker, easier, and less painful method.

Eames drank eagerly but carefully, licking his badly chapped lips once Arthur pulled the glass away. For one of the first times since they had met, Arthur wasn't assailed with the thought that Eames' mouth was really ridiculously plush and a bit excessive. Oh, the kneejerk response was still there. But the situation was far too serious, far too dire for him to dwell on such things.

Just because Eames looked as though he had a mouth made for sin, that didn't mean that Arthur had the right to notice.

Especially not right here, right now. Not when Eames still looked like death warmed over; and that was putting it kindly.

"We're in Saito's plane," Arthur told Eames as he placed the empty glass down and settled them both back against the pillows. And if he didn't somehow manage to move his arm from behind Eames... well, Eames didn't seem to want him to move it. In fact, Eames curled slightly toward him, too weak to really move far, but the intent was there and obvious. "We're safe, we're headed for Paris. Ariadne is going to be glad to see you. She's probably going to cry."

Eames was staring at him fixedly, with a strange mixture of wonder and anguish in his eyes. Arthur wasn't sure of the why of either response. Though he probably should have guessed, and so he really shouldn't have been surprised when Eames licked his lips again and quietly rasped;

"Arthur... are you really here?"

"I am," Arthur said, forcing the words out, trying to sound as certain and reassuring as he could. "I'm here, Eames."

"Am... am I really here?"

"Yes." Arthur placed his free hand on Eames' chest, fingers firm against the scrolling tattoos he never would have suspected the man to be hiding under his usual button-up shirts, only enough pressure to make Eames aware of his presence, not enough to aggravate the bruising on his torso that had come to light along with the tattoos when Arthur and the doctor had stripped him. "I'm here, you're here, we're both here, Eames."

It all came out in a breathless rush, his tongue almost tangling in his intent desire to reassure, to convince.

Eames smiled up at him, and it was the sadness in that curve of his lips as much as it was the cracking of dried flesh that caused Arthur to physically wince in response. "I wish that you were."

Arthur scowled. His heart was thumping in his chest, but he had to find a way to set Eames' mind at ease. There was so much pain and sorrow on the man's face that it made him ache in response.

"Do you dream of me in my undershirt, lying in bed with you often?" he asked, as dryly as he could when he had to speak through a huge lump in his throat.

Eames chuckled faintly, but this turned quickly into a rough coughing fit. This spasm was over with soon enough, but it left Eames slumped against Arthur's shoulder, head lolling, barely conscious.

"Eames," Arthur murmured soothingly, running his fingers through hair that desperately needed a good shampooing. A sponge bath could only do so much, and Eames had been being held captive for a week. This had to be distressing for a man who was generally fairly fastidious when it came to his personal hygiene, but Arthur was more concerned by the mental and emotional distress that Eames was obviously dealing with.

"It's all right. I'm here," he soothed, letting go hard-won pride and deeply ingrained restraint, his focus solely upon offering Eames support and reassurance. He'd have wished for the same if their situations had been reversed, he thought.

"I hope you are," Eames rasped into Arthur's collarbone. Arthur was reminded of the first dream level, when teenage-Eames had coiled up in his lap and unabashedly sought out comfort. He moved his free hand to rub spirals onto Eames' back, much broader in waking reality, almost exactly as he had done in the dream.

It was just as easy here as it had been there, but Arthur didn't spend too long pondering the whys and wherefores of this fact.

"Did they bring a forgery or a projection of me into the dreamshare?" he asked carefully. He was reluctant to bring up the subject of what had happened to Eames, of what had _been done_ to him, but he needed to know what he was dealing with here, needed to figure out what he might be able to say or do to set Eames' mind at ease.

Eames was silent and Arthur wondered for a moment if he had lost consciousness again. But, no, his body was tense against Arthur's, his breathing too short and erratic to be anything but wakeful.

"Not exactly," Eames finally replied. He brought a hand up to rest on Arthur's chest, and it was shaking so badly that Arthur had to close his eyes for a moment. "They didn't.... They weren't that good. But my mind.... I was trying to find ways out, and-- and-- My... my mind was doing... odd things. I saw you.... Saw my Mum...."

Arthur wasn't sure how he felt about being a comforting spectre in Eames' mind, grouped in with the man's mother. Flattered. Disturbed. Concerned.

"But were these projections realistic?" he asked. Because Eames might not know that Arthur knew, but thanks to his recent delving into Eames' past, Arthur was now aware that Eames' mother was dead.

"No," Eames replied easily enough, his head moving restlessly on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur wondered whether it was too bony for the other man, thought that the pillow would be more comfortable, but he couldn't bear to offer to move, either of them. He hated to admit it, but he... _liked_ being curled up in bed around Eames, wanted to be able to offer Eames a feeling of safety and security. "No, it was always a faint shadow...." He swallowed convulsively. "But you know how things are in a dream, Arthur. They feel real while you're in them."

Arthur nodded, grimacing above Eames' head. "I know. But I'm real, Eames. I'm here right now."

"I know." Eames sounded convincing, sounded convinced. "I know this must be reality, because there's no way otherwise that I'd wake up in bed, resting my aching head on your manly shoulder."

Arthur laughed shortly, mostly because he knew that it was expected, but he was still worried about Eames, still wanted to make this better when there was really no way that he _could_ make it better.

"What happened?" he asked, not wanting to press, but he and Saito needed to know. Since Arthur had gone and executed the culprits, that was. They needed to know if more people were going to be coming after them, after Eames. "Who were those men and why were they...?"

He couldn't finish that sentence, but he knew that he didn't have to.

Eames went completely still against him, then moved slowly back, so that he could meet Arthur's eyes. "What did you-- Did you kill them?"

Arthur nodded. "Before we could question them, yes. I did."

"Oops." Eames' mouth quirked, but it was nothing like a smile, and his gaze was dark, filled with unreadable emotion. "Arthur, my avenging angel."

Arthur rolled his eyes, and this, more than anything else, seemed to convince Eames that he was in waking reality, that they were both really here.

"Right." Eames settled back against the pillow, not leaning away from Arthur, but no longer pressing against him either. Arthur tried not to feel a sense of loss. Eames' eyes were closed, his face pale. "It wasn't anything to do with the Fischer job. The members of our little erstwhile team are perfectly safe."

"That wasn't my concern," Arthur said sharply, angry that Eames could have thought he would be so self-centered.

Eames cracked his eyes open. His lids were still bruised, heavy, his face lined with pain and weariness. He looked as though... well, he looked as though he'd been bound and tortured and murdered over and over for weeks, months, for longer than Arthur cared to contemplate.

"S'all right, Arthur," Eames slurred, and whatever energy he'd briefly tapped upon waking was draining rapidly away. "It's important to know. Gotta make sure little Ariadne and the lovely Cobb family will be safe."

"That's true," Arthur allowed, gentling his tone, reaching and cautiously palming Eames' cheek again, feeling the freshly-shaven skin soft beneath his fingertips. "But that's not what's important to me."

Eames smirked mirthlessly, his eyes closing again. "Must be dreaming," he muttered, and Arthur couldn't read his tone of voice. Bitterness? Melancholy?

Whatever it was, it made him feel anxious, guilty, embarrassed.... So many different things and he couldn't quantify them all, any more than he could put a name to Eames' tone. He moved his hand away, slowly, but only far enough down so that he could rest his palm on one sharp collarbone, his fingers pressed to the pulse beating too sluggishly under the delicate flesh of Eames' neck.

"You're not," he assured Eames firmly. "You're awake now, Eames."

"All right." And this time Eames didn't sound convinced.

Arthur grimaced.

"It was deeply personal," Eames husked, his voice fading as quickly as the rest of him. Soon he would be asleep again. Arthur thought that he ought to get more water in Eames before he was gone, but getting his question answered was also a priority. While he hovered, torn, Eames continued. "Just... just the three bastards. Had it out for me after a job gone to the bad, a year or so back."

"I shot three men," Arthur said, nodding. "So there'll be no one else?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Eames slurred, the words a little difficult to make out. "Bad job. S'mun died; pretty bird who shouldn't even've been involved. Was m'fault."

Arthur knew exactly what Eames was talking about. "The Angus job," he posited.

Eames' eyes flew open and he fixed Arthur with a wild stare. Then his slightly shocked expression melted into absolute despair that made Arthur's heart thump, followed by a bleak resignation that was even worse.

"Knew this was a dream," Eames breathed, letting his eyes slide closed again.

"Asshole," Arthur snapped sharply, his anger fueled by anxiety and no small amount of fear. He didn't want Eames to give up. He didn't want to _see_ Eames give up like this, ever again. And he didn't want Eames to give up on _him_. "Don't tell me I'm a dream. Don't you dare."

Eames' eyes opened again and he stared at Arthur in shock and dawning hope.

Arthur continued, in a more reasonable, far less furious tone of voice. "I've been checking into everything you've done in the past four years, Eames, and further back than that, while I was looking for you. I'm sorry for invading your privacy, but I was trying to track you down." His mouth quirked wryly. "Though, in the end, I failed at that, and it was Saito who actually found you. I'm sorry."

Eames blinked slowly. "Oh," he said faintly.

"And Ylsa Brom's death wasn't your fault," Arthur added sternly. "Or if it was, it wasn't any more yours than that of anyone else involved.

Eames blinked at him slowly, his face blank, expression unreadable. Then he smiled, very slightly, and it looked like it might be an honest smile.

"Thank you," he said simply. After a moment of silent thought, he asked, "How long have I been missing, then?"

"A week," Arthur replied, laying it out bluntly, letting the frustration and panic he had been feeling for the entire seven days bleed into his voice a little. "It's been a week since you called me for help. I'm... I'm so sorry I wasn't able to get to you sooner."

Eames moved a hand in what was probably meant to be a dismissive gesture, but which wasn't much more than a sad little twitch. "S'all right," he assured Arthur. His head moved restlessly on the pillow, his eyes still open but now fixed on the low ceiling above them. "A week.... Seemed like years...."

"It would have, in dream time," Arthur said, startled by how husky his voice came out. He took advantage of Eames' distraction to pour more water. "Or months, at least."

Eames shifted obediently as Arthur propped him up again. "They didn't have me down there the whole time," he mumbled into the glass. He drank, finishing off the entire glass readily enough even though sounded as though it pained him to swallow, then rested his head on Arthur's shoulder again. "Took 'em a while to find a hideout, I think. I was in the boot of their car when I woke, so I'm none too sure. And once they got started... they would bring me out of the dream for a bit of food from time to time; had to keep me alive, y'know."

"Really?" Arthur knew he shouldn't be surprised by this -- as badly off as he was, there was no way Eames would be able to function, to speak, to retain consciousness like this if he'd gone without at least a few basic necessities during the entire week he'd been missing.

"Think they kept me drugged most've the time," Eames said, and his voice was fading fast again. Arthur reflected that sleep would probably be good for the man, and Arthur had gotten the most important information out of him; who had done this, how many there had been, and even _why_ they had done it. "S'all a blur. Think sometimes they took me under and left me alone to stew, just to keep me guessing what might happen next. Those... those were the times I saw you 'n m'Mum."

"Ah." Arthur didn't have much to say to that. He made a mental note to tell Saito, so that he could translate and inform his physician. She would need to know that there were probably traces of some sort of drug in Eames' system.

But right now Eames was heavy against Arthur's shoulder and growing more heavy as he slid further into sleep. He didn't smell any too good, Arthur would admit, which was no surprise, since Arthur doubted a bath had been high on Eames' captors' priority list -- they were all lucky the bastards had been willing to feed him -- but this didn't so much bother him. Just the fact that Eames was alive and safe, if not well, was enough for Arthur right now. For the past week, he hadn't even had this much.

"Still spent far too much time at their tender mercies, though," Eames murmured, almost sounding as though he was talking to himself. "You'd have thought it would have gotten old after a while... hurting me... killing me...." He sighed heavily. "But evidently it didn't."

"I'm so sorry," Arthur said, running his fingers through Eames' hair again. It should have felt strange, getting this close and personal with a man he had only ever worked with professionally before, but there had always been... _something_... there between them. Something unspoken and unacknowledged, but there nonetheless.

Besides, Arthur was just glad that Eames was still alive.

"Sorry for what?" Eames asked, his voice a little stronger. He shifted against Arthur, but it was merely to wrap an arm loosely around Arthur's waist. "Was all my own mistake. I'm the one who pissed these bastards off. I'm the one who got caught."

"I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner," Arthur replied, finding that he had begun rubbing Eames' back again. He didn't stop, though. "You called me for help and I couldn't help."

"Not like I gave you much to go on," Eames scoffed. "Y'can't take the weight of the entire world on your narrow shoulders, Arthur." He sounded more fond than reproving, and he curled closer to Arthur. "I'm a big boy; ought to be able to get myself out of the things I got myself into."

"You called me for help and I couldn't help," Arthur repeated stubbornly. Mainly because it pained him to say it, and he felt he deserved this sharp sting. "If Ariadne hadn't contacted Saito, I might still be searching."

"I don't believe that for a moment," Eames sighed, and before Arthur could request clarification, he concluded. "Be a dear and let me sleep now? My head is hurting something awful."

Arthur stilled, then went back to carding his fingers through Eames hair. Eames hadn't complained about this touch specifically, and Arthur knew from past experiences with headaches of his own that it might actually help.

"That's the dehydration talking," he said softly. "We should get some more water in you, and maybe some food."

"Sleep," Eames insisted, nearly incoherently.

"All right," Arthur agreed, even though it would seem that Eames was already gone. "For a little while."

Once he was certain Eames was asleep, safely, soundly, naturally asleep, Arthur very slowly, very carefully moved away and slipped out of the bed. He had some things to discuss with Saito and some arrangements to be made before the plane touched down in France.

It might have been nice to remain resting in bed with Eames... but Arthur had things to do.

He had already failed Eames once. He wasn't going to fail him again.

+++

Well before the plane touched down in Paris, Arthur, and by extension, Eames -- or perhaps it was the other way around -- already had an apartment.

Arthur could have taken care of this himself, _would_ have taken care of it himself, but the fact of the matter was that by the time he entered the seating area, six hours after the plane had left the States, Saito had already done it for him.

"I didn't think you would mind," Saito murmured smoothly, smiling a little, as though he made such extravagant gestures every day. And perhaps he did. Now that he didn't have to worry any longer about being overwhelmed by the Fischer Morrow energy conglomerate, he seemed to have almost unlimited wealth and power. It was fortunate that he seemed to intend to use it mostly for good. Or, at least, for the good of himself and those who had helped him to reach this pinnacle of finance and influence.

At least this included both Arthur and Eames, Arthur thought gratefully, as he sank into the plush seat beside Saito. These chairs on Saito's private jet made the first class seats they had spent the trip during the inception in look like folding chairs, and Arthur fought the immediate urge to close his eyes and fall sound asleep. If he hadn't slept beside Eames in the bed, he certainly wasn't sleeping here.

Behind both he and Saito, armed with the fresh knowledge that the men who had been holding Eames had also been drugging him, the doctor scooted back to check on her patient. Arthur didn't know what good she might be able to do after the fact, here on Saito's jet, but he was glad to know that she was watching over Eames so stringently.

Normally, Arthur might have been at least a little put out by the presumptiveness of Saito's action. He preferred to do things on his own and not to depend on anyone else. But he could recognize and acknowledge the intent behind this generous action.

As well, he still owed Saito. Despite Eames' recently expressed trust to the contrary, it had _not_ been Arthur who had found him. Eames' whereabouts had been a complete mystery until Saito had stepped in. And as grateful as Arthur was, that was something he was never going to let himself forget.

So. "Thank you," he said simply, with as much gratitude and humility as he could put into his voice.

"You should get some sleep," Saito told him, sounding both reproving and concerned at once.

"I can't," Arthur protested. He accepted the drink Saito handed him, unsurprised when he took a sip and discovered that while it resembled water in its crystalline clearness, it was most decidedly _not_ water. "I have too many things to do."

"What?" Saito asked bluntly, staring at Arthur over the rim of his own glass. "I have procured you a place to stay, a means of getting there once we land, and a doctor who is even now getting set up in your apartment, preparing to give Eames more care than my physician can offer on this jet. You and I have already both spoken to Ariadne, and she has contacted both Cobb and Yusuf. As you have discovered from Eames, there is no need to fear further attacks and I shall make sure there is no possibility of reprisal from any quarter. What more is there for you to do, Arthur?"

Arthur blinked stupidly at Saito. He felt as though the alcohol had slowed his mind, made it hard for him to think, but he knew it was actually far more likely to be the stress he'd been feeling the last week and the lack of restful sleep -- or any sleep at all -- finally catching up with him now that he wasn't running on pure adrenaline any longer.

Well, though the alcohol wasn't helping either, of course.

"How much have you slept in the last seven days?" Saito continued, his voice deceptively smooth.

"If I go back there, it'll annoy your physician," Arthur offered in faint protest. Sleeping in the chair he was sitting in, no matter how plush and comfortable, wasn't an option. It was too far away from Eames.

"Then she will be annoyed." Saito made an elegant gesture with his free hand, his expression cheerful now that it seemed he was going to be getting his way. "Go back to Eames, Arthur. I will wake you when we land."

Seeing as this was the moment that Arthur's empty glass nearly slipped out of his hand, simply because he was growing too numb, too heavy of limb, too weary to hold it properly, he decided that it wouldn't be the worst idea in the world to do as Saito had instructed.

It wasn't a defeat of any kind, no surrender. Eames might wake again, after all. And if he did, he would want Arthur there, at his side. Right?

"Thank you," Arthur said to Saito, rising.

Saito merely nodded, but he was smiling, his expression soft as Arthur turned away. And it occurred to Arthur that despite the fact that he had been abrasive, hard-edged, and even something of a bully when they had first met, and had done his best to strong-arm them into performing the Fischer inception before discovering that bribery worked a lot better on Cobb... somewhere along the line, as their strange little team had worked and planned and created worlds together, Saito had become something very closely resembling a friend. Or at least a colleague worthy of respect and mild fondness.

It was a comforting feeling, to think that Saito seemed to feel the same way about Arthur, and about Eames.

That was why he had helped them, why he was continuing to help. Because that was what friends did.

Trust Ariadne to have realized this long before Arthur had.

+++

As exhausted as he had felt while speaking to Saito, Arthur found that once he was back in bed beside Eames he _just could not sleep_.

Eames was warm, solid and real, right there next to him, so that shouldn't have been an issue. Maybe that wasn't the issue.

Arthur tucked himself close, listening to Eames breathing quietly, until it just wasn't enough anymore. He felt that he would never live it down if Saito caught them... _cuddling_... but he couldn't think what else to call it as he turned toward Eames, curling around the man's lax body, and resting his hand on Eames' broad chest, so that he could _feel_ it rising and falling. So that he could, if he concentrated, feel the flutter of Eames' heart beating against his palm.

This was simply a matter of comfort, Arthur told himself. His own comfort, and also his ability to comfort Eames.

That was all.

And yet he still couldn't sleep.

Arthur's problem, what made him a really good point man, but which was a huge drawback right now, was that once he started in thinking about something his brain wouldn't let go of it until he had figured it out.

And he was trying to figure out exactly when Eames had become so important to him.

One thing he didn't waste time on, was denying that it was true. He might not know _why_ , but when he was lying in bed with Eames, holding the other man close despite the fact that he desperately needed a bath, wishing more than almost anything that he could erase the last week from existence -- or at least from Eames' memory -- there was really no point in even trying to deny that Eames _meant something_ to him.

And definitely something more than just the former co-workers that he knew he ought to consider them to be.

Well, if Saito was something very like a friend now, then it only made sense that Eames was _more_ valuable to Arthur, didn't it. In a life where very few people could be trusted and those that one could call friends were few and far between.

Arthur never regretted straying over the line of legitimacy into outright thefts -- even if, unlike Eames, he mainly kept these infractions on a metaphysical level, where they were less likely to be traced and prosecuted -- but this lifestyle did impose certain restrictions. As Ariadne would discover if she kept at it, though Arthur intended to do his best to dissuade her, and he thought that Saito planned the same.

Aside from Dom, and Ariadne to a certain extent, Arthur didn't really have "friends". Not anyone that would commonly be recognized as such, at any rate. And before the Fischer job he never would have thought to call Eames by that label.

The truth was, before the Fischer job they really _hadn't_ been anything more than colleagues. Two men in the field of dreamsharing and not-at-all-legal extraction. They had worked together a few times, had heard of one another more often than that, and both had respect for one another, but they had very dissimilar ways of working, and that tended to grate.

Well, okay, Arthur could admit that the two of them worked together very well. It was just that they had what almost amounted to opposite methods of reaching the exact same goals. And sometimes that cause friction.

It was probably a bad thing that he knew that this last thought would have netted him a scornful snort from Cobb for being something of a massive understatement.

Arthur wondered if it said something that it had so obviously irritated Eames whenever Arthur had underestimated him during the Fischer job. It seemed to Arthur that Eames had made it one of his life's goal to be consistently underestimated. Whether this was for the sake of staying out of the limelight, to try and keep people from depending on him for anything, whether he was simply lazy, or some combination of all three, Arthur had never been able to definitively decide. He did know for certain that he hadn't imagined it.

So, why, then, did Eames get his back up whenever Arthur did just what he wanted?

Maybe it was because Eames knew that Arthur knew better.

Maybe it was because Eames _didn't_ know that Arthur knew better.

Or maybe Eames was just a contrary bastard.

Arthur grimaced, curling his fingers slightly against the smooth flesh of Eames' chest. He shouldn't be thinking uncharitable thoughts; that only made him feel more guilty. And he already felt guilty enough.

Really, most of the time Arthur and Eames were able to work together perfectly professionally. But the mere fact that they managed to annoy one another in so many little ways... well, Arthur thought that this indicated something more. Something _different_ than any of Arthur's other interpersonal relationships.

Usually when someone annoyed Arthur he snapped at them, possibly yelling if the infraction warranted, and then either ignored them or got rid of them as quickly as possible. With the Fischer job and their need for a first class forger, with Cobb in charge of recruiting and Saito bankrolling the venture, this hadn't been an option. But Arthur could safely say that the thought of booting Eames hadn't once crossed his mind. In fact, Eames had come up with most of the salient details of the inception plan. Which might have been fitting, seeing as Cobb and Eames had been the only ones who had really believed inception to be possible in the first place.

Arthur didn't know if they would have been _able_ to pull the inception off without Eames. He figured probably... but he was glad that they hadn't had to try.

Still, all that aside. When Eames had sent him a cryptic cry for help, why had Arthur dropped everything and flown to the States? Why had he practically wrecked himself searching? Why was he now wrapped around Eames as though he couldn't bear to be parted?

And why was the thought of anyone else caring for Eames after what had happened so intolerable to him?

Really.

Okay.

There could only be one reason for all of that. It had to be because of how Arthur felt about Eames. And, again, that wasn't the issue. Arthur was surprised by how strongly he felt toward Eames, but he was willing to accept it and move on, since it was clearly too late to do anything to change or unseat the affection.

So, what was it about Eames?

Eames was smart. He downplayed this, constantly, but trying to hide it would have been ridiculous during the Fischer job, and he hadn't even really tried.

Eames was also attractive; that much was impossible to deny. Arthur had seen Ariadne look Eames over in a speculative manner, more than once, and he had always been impressed by the young woman's professionalism, how she had held her own and remained perfectly on-task while working with such a mixed crew of motley, occasionally dangerous men.

So even Ariadne was not blind to Eames' charms. The man could stand out in a crowd, or he could blend in so perfectly that he was nearly invisible. He had done all the undercover work while they had been setting up the Fischer job. Inside the dreamshare, Eames could become anyone and anything. Arthur could admit, if only to himself, privately, that he had tried his hand at forging, once or twice. He had _no_ idea how Eames did it. Whether it took a different mindset than Arthur possessed, or whether he really did have a disabling lack of imagination, he had found himself unable to wear any body other than his own.

Eames switched face and form flawlessly, fluidly, both in the dreams and out -- though, of course, more dramatically in them. He was an accomplished thief and forger in reality, and he wasn't half so sloppy about things as he led everyone to believe he was. In this, as in other things, he was a master of misdirection.

Of course, all that didn't mean that there weren't habits, quirks, and attitudes of Eames' that legitimately irritated Arthur.

The part in his hair, for one thing. It was a silly detail to be fixated on -- especially when Arthur wore his own hair so severely -- but there it was. It was fairly new, actually. Eames had been wearing his hair shorter when they had met four years ago. He had looked younger then -- even aside from the fact that he had _been_ younger then -- and his cowlick had been rather distinctive. Perhaps that was why he had styled it the way he did not. Either way, Arthur didn't think he liked it.

Then there was the teasing. Some of the time it didn't bother Arthur -- okay, _most_ of the time it didn't. Most of it was their normal back and forth, and that was the way they worked together. Arthur could care less about the "kick" Eames had demonstrated for Ariadne, once he got over the initial indignation, and the occasional endearment tossed his way didn't bother him, so long as the tone wasn't completely mocking. But sometimes Eames shot to wound. And when he went on the defensive.... Arthur hadn't meant to sound condescending when Eames had put forward his ideas for performing an effective inception. He hadn't thought that he had. But evidently Eames had read something in his tone, and had snapped back.

It wasn't nearly so fun being snarked at when Eames _meant_ it.

And there was the gambling. Arthur had to admit that he had no firsthand knowledge of this, since Eames kept things professional when he was working, didn't bring his extracurricular pursuits into jobs, but he had heard stories. It wasn't his place to judge, but Arthur couldn't help doing so, at least a little anyway.

Those were the main things, and none of them were deal breakers so far as Arthur was concerned. There were a multitude of other little things. Like the way Eames occasionally wore clothing ugly enough to blind everyone who looked at him. The way he only ever seemed to finish half a cup of coffee, leaving the cold, milky portions on tables and benches until someone -- usually Arthur -- got fed up and threw them away. His fidgeting and the way he thumbed at the caps of his pens, on and off, on and off, click, click, click, even when he wasn't writing a damned thing.

And. Well. The less said about Eames' penchant for _sucking_ on these same pen caps, mouthing at them, the better. And yet, Arthur thought that so long as he was being painfully honest with himself, maybe he ought to give some consideration as to why this last bothered him so much.

Oh, hell with it. He _knew_ why. Eames had a mouth that seemed solely formed for inciting pornographic thoughts. And the fact that the very British teeth behind these lips were as crooked as a neglected slat fence, teeth that Eames flashed unrepentantly whenever he smiled or laughed... well, as long as he was being _painfully_ honest, Arthur could admit that this only made Eames' mouth all the more fascinating to him.

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? The fact that it wasn't merely friendship. Even the idea of them being friends had taken Arthur by surprise, so how was he supposed to process this?

And yet, it really wasn't that strange. Arthur suspected that if he were to ask Ariadne, she would have been assuming all this time that he and Eames had been _flirting_. It almost felt that way to Arthur, now that the notion had occurred to him. Only Eames was infuriatingly difficult to read when he wasn't being blatantly obvious. And he _hadn't_ been.

At least, Arthur hadn't thought that he had been. Now he was beginning to wonder what Eames might think of this entire subject.

Well, he was going to have to wait to find out. Maybe a very long time, all things considered. After all, with what he had been subjected to, potential romantic entanglements with Arthur could be one of the last things that Eames might want to deal with.

Or maybe it would be a welcome distraction.

Either way, Eames was sound asleep right now, and so Arthur was at _least_ going to have to wait until he awoke. Possibly much, much longer than that.

Before he could stop to think better of it, to realize that it was a bad idea, Arthur found that he had bent to press his lips against Eames'.

It wasn't really a kiss. Not really. More just a way to get closer. To feel Eames' warmth in a manner more intimate than Arthur's hand on his chest. Eames' lips were chapped and dry, not to mention the man was _asleep_....

"Dirty pool, Arthur," Eames breathed against the light pressure of Arthur's mouth.

Arthur pulled back, looking down at Eames, wondering how he could explain himself. He had no intention of disavowing what he had just done. It would be doing both himself and Eames a disservice if he were to lie like that. On the other hand, right this moment didn't seem like the opportune time to confess to things that he had only just begun to realize and acknowledge for himself.

It turned out that he didn't have to say anything after all. Eames never opened his eyes, and almost as soon as the words had left the lips that Arthur had so rashly kissed, his breathing had evened out and he was clearly sound asleep again.

Arthur smiled. He was glad that no one was there to witness the fond curve of his mouth, though he kind of wished that Eames could have seen it.

With a light sigh, he settled down beside Eames, hand still pressed to the man's chest, his cheek resting on the crown of Eames' head despite the dirty hair. The smile slipped away from his lips as sleep crept over his senses, but it remained in his mind.

Arthur had a lot to discuss with Eames and even more to figure out for himself, but right now his mind was finally clear and he was going to get some rest.

As the jet sped toward Paris, closer with each passing moment, Arthur and Eames curled together in Saito's plush bed. And together they slept.


	4. But Does Not Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariadne didn't cry after all, but Arthur couldn't put a name to the expression on her face the first time she laid eyes on Eames.

Ariadne didn't cry after all, but Arthur couldn't put a name to the expression on her face the first time she laid eyes on Eames.

He figured that was all right, though. She wasn't there for Arthur; she was there for Eames. Or at least so he thought, until she reached forward and grabbed at him, hauling him into a long, tight hug, holding him as closely as she could, her face buried in his wrinkled shirtfront.

Maybe she was simply hugging Arthur because she didn't dare to hug Eames; not when he looked as though he might break to pieces if she tried. Arthur felt a little brittle himself right now, it was true, running on fumes and still vibrating with rage over what had been done to Eames, but he was certainly in better shape than the man in question. Maybe Arthur looked like he needed a hug.

Or maybe it was Ariadne who needed the hug.

Arthur gave up pondering the _why_ of Ariadne's embrace before more than a moment or two had passed, simply wrapping his arms around her and holding her in return. He didn't really need to know _why_ ; he just needed to be here for her. The way she was here for him. The way she was here for Eames.

Ariadne didn't cry when she saw Eames, but she was shaking. She obviously needed this support, needed any comfort that Arthur could give her. Which was, really, all he needed to know in order to hold her close.

And... well, since he had evidently recently started in on the truly obnoxious habit of being honest with himself, Arthur figured that he might as well admit that he needed this embrace almost as much as she did.

Not that Ariadne -- or, really, anyone other than Arthur himself -- was ever going to know this, of course.

+++

Eames hadn't really regained consciousness during the remainder of the flight, nor did he do so after they had landed. Which made it a good thing that Saito's people had a stretcher waiting, prepared to carry him to the car that would drive them from the airport.

And that was exactly what they did, with Arthur and Ariadne keeping a watchful eye all the while. Saito seemed amused by this last fact, but Arthur noticed that he was alert as well.

The apartment that Saito had procured for them was close to perfect, not that Arthur had expected anything less. It was a small place, in a quiet neighborhood, close to shops, with an elevator up to the top floor. That might not matter so much later, but it was nearly essential now, since Eames was still unconscious and certainly not able to move under his own power.

Of course, having Saito's people there to carry him made things a lot simpler. What was even more gratifying, however, was the way they all quietly vanished once they were through with their task. Arthur appreciated that the most.

Once Eames was settled in the bed, cleaned, clothed in his own pyjamas -- from the luggage that Arthur had collected in Nebraska -- being closely examined by the doctor that Saito had had waiting in the apartment, Arthur took a moment to breathe, to try to relax the tension between his shoulderblades.

Then he set out to explore their new living space.

He wandered, almost feeling lost, as Ariadne brewed coffee in the kitchen and Saito made a phone call on the tiny balcony. The apartment had high ceilings due to being on the top floor, so it seemed spacious without being too roomy. It was fully fitted out with a perfect mixture of antiques and brand new furnishings; the overall effect homey and yet elegant. There was food in the kitchen, along with plenty of cooking utensils. There were extra towels and spare sheets in the linen cupboard. There were even soaps and shampoos in the small bathroom. Essentially, the place was completely ready for living in, for as long as they needed it. Even knowing everything that Saito was capable of, Arthur found that he was impressed. Even more, he was grateful.

"Thank you," he said, once the man was off his phone and had returned inside. "Thank you so much." He kept it simple but heartfelt.

Saito nodded and his smile looked completely honest. He didn't cheapen the moment by dismissing the huge amount of gratitude that Arthur was feeling, but the hand that he clapped briefly to Arthur's shoulder was warm. Comforting.

"Take good care of him," Saito instructed. He looked tired -- something Arthur felt a little guilty for, only not really, since Saito was here of his own free will -- but also quite pleased with himself. Not really smug, but his expression was softer and more gentle than Arthur was used to seeing it. "And take care of yourself as well."

Arthur nodded in turn and pretended not to hear Saito quietly repeat this injunction to Ariadne in the kitchen, as he went to stand in the doorway of the bedroom, watching the doctor fussing over Eames.

The bastards who had been holding the forger had done most of their damage in the dreamshare, it was true, but they had not restrained themselves to that, the doctor informed them once he was finished and packing up to leave. Eames was suffering from any number of bruises all over his body, which Arthur had already known, as well as a few ribs that were almost definitely cracked. Along with the blow he had taken to the head and the damage that the ropes had done to the flesh of his wrists -- which was mild comparatively, but still painful and nothing to be ignored -- Eames was going to be uncomfortable and in some pain for a while. But the doctor was confident that overall his patient would make a full recovery.

Of course, the doctor didn't know what had been done to Eames within the confines of his own mind... and, as Cobb's projection of Mal had said, pain was in the mind.

Still, it was comforting to know at least that Eames would be all right _physically_.

"Make sure you continue getting water into him," the doctor advised, on his way out the door. "And see that he eats something as soon as he's awake and aware enough to do so."

As if Arthur didn't already know all that. But he was feeling so glad for the good news that he only nodded and promised that he would do as instructed.

This left Arthur, Eames, Ariadne, and Saito in the apartment alone. And Arthur couldn't help himself; he heaved a great sigh of relief.

Ariadne quirked a tiny smile at him, all she seemed capable of at the moment, but she looked as though she understood and felt the same way that Arthur did.

Saito didn't stay. Arthur hadn't expected that he would. The man was like a tsunami or some other powerful force of nature. He swept in, he made radical changes, and then he moved on. That was fine. As grateful as he was for all that Saito had done, Arthur didn't feel that the man belonged here, in this cozy little apartment that he had procured for Arthur and Eames.

Saito did promise to visit the next time he was in Paris. And again, Arthur had no problems with this. It didn't occur to him to find Saito's assumption a bit strange -- that both he and Eames would still be here, living in this apartment, at some unspecified "later" point in time -- until after the door had closed behind the man. And by that point, Arthur was already headed toward the bedroom, to curl up in bed beside Eames and get some more _sleep_ , so he didn't let it bother him any further.

Ariadne was still in the kitchen, and it was only mid-afternoon, but Arthur didn't care.

He lay down beside Eames, soaking in the man's warmth, just absorbing the fact of his presence. It felt good to take a moment to appreciate their success in finding and rescuing Eames; even though it had been Saito who had found him, and even though Eames had been damaged, possibly irreparably, before they had rescued him.

Arthur had been more than a little concerned by Eames' resolute refusal to fully regain consciousness, no matter how he had been jostled around on the way here, but the doctor had assured him that with rest, water, and good food, Eames would be all right. Arthur supposed that he had been lucky that Eames had been as awake and lucid for as long as he had been on the plane.

Eames smelled better now, his hair clean and drying against the pillow. The doctor had actually had two nurses with him and the three of them had expertly manhandled Eames into the bathtub for an actual _bath_ before laying him on the bed. Arthur had been a little worried, but they had been careful and professional about it, and now Eames had been cleansed of the last of the dirt from his captivity. Arthur felt worlds better for this, and he knew that once Eames woke he would appreciate it too.

Arthur sighed, giving in to temptation and rolling onto his side, scooting closer to Eames. It was like on the plane, only not. The sense of urgency had faded, the sense of safety higher, and so Arthur should have felt less as though he needed to cling to Eames, less as though he was going to lose the man....

And yet....

Arthur rested his hand on Eames' chest, as he had done in the plane. He could feel the flesh smooth and supple beneath his fingertips, and it occurred to him that now _he_ was the one in need of a bath. A shower and a change of clothes would definitely not be amiss, but he was too tired to move, couldn't bring himself to even consider rising off the bed.

Curling closer to Eames, Arthur closed his eyes, and then he was gone.

+++

"Arthur?"

"Mm?"

"Arthur."

"Hngh."

"Arthur, _wake up_."

It was Ariadne's voice, he placed after a moment or two of trying to order his sleep-clouded brain. The pillow was soft under his cheek, but a small hand was on his shoulder, shaking him quite insistently, making it impossible for him to fall back into sweet oblivion.

Arthur groaned, turning his face into the plush curve of the pillow. There was something urgent, and Ariadne's tone was as much anxious as it was apologetic, but he just wanted to _sleep_.

"Arthur, I'm sorry to wake you," Ariadne persisted, sounding a little breathless. "But it's already seven o'clock and the doctor said to make sure we wake Eames for water, and dinner is ready, and, um, Cobb is on the phone."

Arthur loosed a curse that he shouldn't mean, but which he really, really did, growling into the pillow, then raised his head, rubbing at gritty eyes. He'd only meant to nap for an hour or so, but his internal clock must have failed him. Well, it wasn't as though he hadn't needed the sleep. Obviously, he had. In fact, his body and brain were screaming at him that more sleep would be _awesome_ right about now. But since he was awake, if not completely aware yet, he knew that there were things he had to do.

Damn it.

Ariadne was still here, in the apartment, not that Arthur had really expected anything else. She was standing beside the bed, looking small and yet resolute; just the way he was used to seeing her, actually. Her dark hair was striped with ruddy highlights from the sunset that was pouring in through the west-facing window, and she was holding her cell phone out to Arthur.

As he awakened further, Arthur realized that he could smell something delicious, and his stomach gave a hungry twist, reminding him that it had been a _long_ time since he'd last eaten a real meal.

Beside him, Eames slept on, peacefully. Arthur hated to rouse him, but Ariadne and the doctor were right; they needed to get more water into him, and some food if he could manage it.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, feeling stubble rasping against his palm, Arthur silently held his other hand out for the phone.

Ariadne pressed it into his palm and then disappeared from the room.

Arthur scooted up so that he was sitting back against the headboard, beside Eames but not touching him. He could see Eames' broad chest rising and falling, and he watched that in a momentary daze as he set the phone to his ear, clearing his throat before he even attempted to speak.

"Cobb?"

"Arthur." Cobb sounded... strange. Relieved, maybe? Arthur had once been adept at reading Cobb's tone of voice, but those days seemed to be behind him. Or maybe he just hadn't completely awakened yet. He did have a week's worth of sleep to try to catch up, after all.

"Ariadne said she told you that we found Eames," Arthur said, rubbing his eyes again and trying to focus. He didn't have to check his totem, he knew he was awake. But he didn't exactly know _why_ he was talking to Cobb on Ariadne's cell phone. That part he had yet to figure out.

"She did," Cobb confirmed. "But I wanted to hear from you."

Arthur grunted, watching as Ariadne carried a pitcher of water and a glass into the room. She raised her brows at Arthur, and he nodded slightly.

"I'm here," he said to Cobb, reaching down and grasping Eames shoulder, giving it a gentle shake -- much less roughly than Ariadne had jostled him. Not unexpectedly, this had absolutely no effect. Eames slept on.

"Arthur," Cobb started, but before he could say anything more, Arthur interrupted.

"Hang on," Arthur instructed shortly, then without waiting for a response he set the phone aside on the fine comforter covering the bed. Carefully but firmly, he hauled Eames, who roused slightly but remained largely limp, up so that he was propped against his shoulder.

Ariadne grimaced, but since it didn't look as though they were going to be getting Eames completely awakened, this was going to have to do. She poured out a glass of water and set the pitcher atop the small table on the opposite side of the bed from Arthur, then crawled up onto the wide mattress, carefully coaxing Eames to drink while Arthur picked the phone up again.

Arthur kept a close eye on both the other two, even though, honestly, he really did trust Ariadne not to drown Eames. Eames drank without fully awakening, which was definitely a relief, though not as much a relief as it would have been if he had roused.

Arthur attempted to turn the majority of his attention to the phone call, to Cobb. It was more difficult than he would have expected. He was somehow not surprised by this.

"I'm back," he informed Cobb. He hoped that this conversation, whatever it was, wasn't going to take long, because now that he was properly awakening, he was beginning to realize that he was _ravenous_. As much as he had felt the need for sleep just minutes before, now he wanted to _eat_ something. Preferably, whatever Ariadne had prepared that smelled so good.

"Arthur, are you okay?" Cobb asked, and he sounded really concerned.

"What?" Arthur blinked. He wasn't the one that had been being held, tormented and killed in his dreams multiple times. He wasn't the one who was dehydrated, malnourished, badly bruised, and still mostly unconscious. "Of course. Why are you asking?"

"Arthur." He wasn't sure he liked Cobb's tone of voice. "You killed the men that were holding Eames, didn't you?"

"Yes," Arthur replied shortly, frowning, wondering whether Cobb had a point. Eames seemed to have fallen back asleep after downing two glasses of water. Ariadne sighed, but evidently deemed this to be good enough for now. She squirmed back off the bed, leaving the pitcher and glass on the table as she padded barefoot out of the room. "Cobb, I've killed men before," Arthur reminded him, once he was reasonably certain that Ariadne was out of earshot, keeping his voice low, just in case.

"That doesn't mean it's not a big deal," Cobb said, as though he knew. Well, maybe he did. Maybe Arthur _didn't_ know everything about his friend and former colleague that there was to know. Or maybe Cobb was just using his imagination and his experiences shooting projections. Either way, he sounded concerned, worried about Arthur, not disapproving. Which was good, because Arthur still didn't regret executing those three assholes. He regretted not making them suffer, but he did _not_ regret their deaths, nor the fact that they had died by his hand.

"It was necessary," Arthur told Cobb stiffly. "And I'm fine." That was true, after all.

"All right." Cobb sighed gustily, but at least he was willing to let the subject go. "How is Eames?" he asked instead, his voice softer and more hesitant than Arthur would have expected.

"Not so good," Arthur replied softly, glancing down at the man reclining against his side.

The cut on Eames' temple was clean and had healed enough in the past week that the doctor had deemed two thin butterfly bandaids to be sufficient. It was going to scar, of course, but there was nothing that could be done about that. The bruises would fade, the ribs -- if they were indeed cracked -- would mend.

What concerned Arthur, truly and deeply concerned him, was the damage that had been done to Eames' mind, to his psyche. Eames was a strong man, with a strong will, this Arthur knew. And yet, being tortured and killed, over and over, for what had seemed to Eames to be months.... Well. As far as Arthur was concerned, _no one_ would be okay after that.

" _Will_ he be okay?" Cobb spoke carefully, quietly, as though he were speaking to one of his children. Arthur scowled, but didn't take offense.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "He was conscious for a little while on the plane, and he had trouble distinguishing reality. He hasn't really been awake since then."

Cobb was still for a long moment. Then. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No." Arthur bit his lip as he realized how harshly that had come out. "Thank you, Cobb, but no," he added, trying to sound less sharp, more grateful. "Just... don't give up on him."

"I wouldn't," Cobb replied, sounding offended, sounding as though he hadn't virtually given up on finding and rescuing Eames while Arthur had been scrabbling for leads in Nebraska. The words had never been spoken, of course, but Arthur had always been good at reading between the lines. And Cobb wasn't half so enigmatic as he liked to think.

Arthur tried to swallow down this slight rush of bitterness. There was no place for it; not in this conversation with Cobb, and not here, in this bed with Eames.

"He's been through a lot, Cobb," he said wearily. Cobb didn't know the whole story, after all. "They were taking him into the dreamshare, taking him under again sometimes, into a second level of dreaming, torturing and eventually killing him, over and over. No one could be okay after that."

Cobb was silent at this, but Arthur caught Ariadne's dismayed little gasp, where she had just walked into the room, carrying a tray of food.

Arthur felt bad, because he had so far spared her the gory details, but he supposed he couldn't have kept it from her forever. If she was going to help him look after Eames -- and that seemed to be her intention, at least tonight -- she ought to know what she was dealing with, what _they_ were dealing with. And Cobb needed to know, since Ariadne hadn't known to tell him. Of course, Cobb probably could have guessed already. He had certainly guessed right about Arthur killing the men holding Eames. Although, now that he thought about it, Arthur vaguely remembered Saito saying something on the plane about having spoken to Cobb. So maybe Cobb had already known and hadn't just guessed.

"I have to go now," Arthur told Cobb, but he said it with a real pang of regret, contrary to how he had felt earlier in the conversation.

Well, Cobb could be an asshole sometimes, especially when he was closely focused on something, but when he wasn't being a dick he was a good friend. Arthur suddenly felt very far away from the man. And not just because he was back in France after having spent the last week in the States. After all, Cobb didn't live anywhere near Nebraska.

"Take care of Eames," Cobb instructed, echoing Saito, though he surely didn't know it. "And take care of yourself. And _call me_. I want to know how things go."

"I'll email you," Arthur said. Because, realistically, that was more likely to happen, and he didn't want to make any promises he couldn't keep.

Cobb sighed again, but he didn't _really_ sound too put out.

"Goodbye, Arthur," he said and his voice was rich with honest affection.

"Goodbye," Arthur replied and hung up.

"You didn't tell me that," Ariadne said accusingly, her voice sharp, as she set the tray she was carrying across Arthur's lap before he could untangle his legs from the covers. It felt weird to be sitting in bed, having dinner, instead of getting up... but since Eames definitely wasn't up to making the trip to the table in the tiny dining nook off the kitchen, they were going to have to make do.

Arthur handed back Ariadne's phone with a grimace. "There wasn't really time," he defended. "We were on our way to the airport when I let you know we'd rescued Eames. It wasn't as though I was planning on keeping it from you; it just hadn't come up yet."

It was clear what she thought of this excuse, from the quirk of her brows and the skew of her lips, but Ariadne let it slide. Instead of pursuing the subject, she went back around to the other side of the bed and climbed up onto the mattress -- carefully, so as not to jostle the tray -- then curled close against Eames, on his other side.

"Should we try to wake him?" she whispered, reaching up and pressing one hand to his face, very gently, her fingers spread over his cheekbone and jaw. She seemed as fascinated by the lack of stubble as Arthur remembered being, himself, her eyes dark and warm as she ran her gaze over Eames' features.

Arthur frowned, resolutely ignoring the possessive tug he was feeling as he weighed the value of sleep against the value of eating. But he knew how much sleep Eames had been getting lately and he _didn't_ know when the last time the man had eaten was.

"Yes. Let's wake him," Arthur decided. Part of him just wanted to dive into the meal Ariadne had plopped in his lap -- it looked even better than it smelled, and he was _starving_ \-- but taking care of Eames was a priority.

Besides, even though he wasn't conscious to know it, Eames had to be even more hungry than Arthur was by this point. If they could just get him to wake, they could take care of that.

Arthur was at an awkward angle, with Eames slumped against his shoulder, and he had to steady the tray, so he was kind of forced to leave it to Ariadne to make the attempt. He didn't really like this fact. But he respected and trusted the young woman. And, more importantly, he knew that Eames felt the same way about her.

Reason told him that it was uncharitable to want to push Ariadne away and do everything himself, especially after all that she had already done for them. But that didn't mean that this wasn't Arthur's gut reaction.

Shooting him a strange look, as though she had read his mind, Ariadne shifted so that she was facing Eames on the mattress.

"There's no good way to do this, is there," she said, and it wasn't a question, but Arthur shook his head in response anyway.

Ariadne reached forward again, cupping Eames' face with both hands this time, her expression intent, a small line creasing the flesh between her brows. Arthur told himself that he had seen her look at her mazes much the same way, and tried to force down the sudden surge of fierce jealousy that threatened to rear its ugly head when she touched Eames.

And he knew that he wasn't jealous over Ariadne's touch. Not jealous _of_ Eames, at any rate. He'd stolen a kiss from Ariadne during the Fischer job, it was true. But it had only ever been one quickly snatched kiss, and they both knew it. Arthur had, admittedly, felt a spark of attraction toward Ariadne -- she was intelligent, beautiful, talented, and had a strong personality -- but she had made it clear while they had been working together that while she _liked_ him, she wasn't interested. And after the initial tug of disappointment, Arthur was perfectly okay with that.

What he wasn't comfortable with, was the sudden realization that he didn't want Ariadne touching Eames, in large part because he didn't want anyone else touching Eames. And so he did his best to quash this reaction, to drive it back into the further recesses of his mind.

This reaction had no place here, and Arthur knew that.

Ariadne's hands were much smaller than Arthur's had been when he had held Eames' face in much the same way, her flesh more pale against Eames' skin, even though Arthur himself was far from tanned. She tracked her thumb over the line of one of Eames' finely-shaped brows, then pressed it into the dip at the corner of his mouth. Her own lips were parted, probably unconsciously, her gaze intent where she was focused on Eames' features.

Arthur gritted his teeth, hard, but said nothing.

"He looks so much younger like this, without the pomade," Ariadne said softly, then shot Arthur a quick glance, her lips curving, almost a smile. "So do you, Arthur."

He reached up unconsciously, before he could tell himself not to, and ran his fingers through his hair. He'd slicked it back as was his norm the morning of the day he had blazed to Eames' rescue... but that had been a long time ago. And he'd slept in a bed twice since then. He could feel the remnants of product gumming some of the strands, but most of it had long ago given up the battle, and there were errant tangles falling in his face, badly enough to make him wince. At least it was only Ariadne who was seeing him like this. She wouldn't make fun or spread the tale.

She wasn't paying him any more attention, anyway. Instead, she was reaching up, brushing back the loose bangs covering Eames' forehead, a fond look softening her features.

Arthur could forgive her a lot based on this expression alone. And since there was nothing she needed forgiveness for in the first place.... Arthur picked up a slice of bread and took a huge bite. He wanted Eames awake and eating, true, but he couldn't help how hungry he was himself. And, besides, putting something in his mouth might help to keep him from uttering words that he knew he would only end up regretting. He wasn't even sure what he would have said, but he knew that it would have been a bad idea.

"Eames?" Ariadne kept one hand on Eames' face as she used her other to shake his shoulder lightly, the same way that she had roused Arthur, though much less vigorously. Arthur winced for the sake of Eames' battered ribs, but they really did need to wake Eames, to get him to eat.

"Eames, come on. Wake up."

Arthur polished off the rest of his bread, licking butter off his lips, brushing crumbs off his fingers onto the comforter, uncaring.

"Eames, please," Ariadne pursued, somehow managing not to sound as though she was pleading, only making a request.

And somehow that seemed to work. Still leaning heavily against Arthur's shoulder, Eames stirred. Arthur placed a firm hand on the tray, in case Eames woke badly, but he needn't have worried. Eames was really too weak from hunger and neglect to react violently anyway.

From his unusual angle, a little above Eames and to the side, Arthur could see the man's lashes flickering as he blinked his eyes open. They were a lot longer than Arthur would have thought, and he found himself staring. Distracted. Captivated.

"Eames!" Ariadne breathed, smiling widely, as the man finally roused enough to meet her gaze.

Eames looked, well, nothing so much as _confused_ , at finding himself confronted upon waking with Ariadne's adorable face.

Arthur swallowed thickly, telling himself that he would be an asshole if he was pleased by this fact.

He recalled, though, Eames' confession on the plane, that he had seen illusions of Arthur, of his _mother_ , and that these had been a comfort to him. He also remembered that Eames had not mentioned Ariadne, or anyone else.

And that was.... Okay, so, Arthur kind of _was_ an asshole, because as terrible as this was, it did please him.

He just couldn't help himself.

"Eames," he added, tightening the arm he had wrapped around the man's shoulders, watching as the faint tension that had drawn the lines of Eames' face melted away and trying not to feel immensely gratified by this fact, because now was definitely not the time. "Hey, wake up, okay?"

"Arthur?" Eames sounded better, which was a relief in and of itself, his voice only slightly more rough than his usual husky rasp. "What's...?"

"We're here," Arthur hastened to assure him, before he could ask the question that wrenched at Arthur's heart so badly. "Both of us, and Ariadne. We're here, Eames, safe, in Paris."

"Oh," Eames mumbled. His lips plumped, his lashes fluttering wildly, but he seemed to be struggling to process Arthur's words, to understand the information that he'd been presented with.

Ariadne gave Arthur a piercing look that saw far too much, but she didn't say anything. In fact, if anything, her expression softened and became infuriatingly indulgent. Arthur wasn't sure he liked what she was clearly thinking.

"Ariadne made us dinner," Arthur added, nodding at the tray still sitting in his own lap. "Are you up to eating?"

Eames stared at the tray, at the two plates that Ariadne had loaded with far more food than Arthur thought they would be capable of consuming, even two healthy young men who hadn't eaten in a while.

"We're both here?" Eames whispered, fumbling awkwardly to lock his fingers around the wrist of the hand Arthur was still using to steady the tray. His grip would have hurt if he hadn't been so weak, but Arthur winced anyway, out of sympathy for Eames' obvious distress.

"All three of us are here, Eames," he said, and Ariadne carefully collected Eames' free hand in her own smaller hands, holding on tightly, her face not quite blank enough to hide her distress and fear, though to her credit, she did try. "You, and me, and Ariadne."

"Ah." Eames stared at the young woman for a long moment before he really seemed to see her. "Ah, sorry, love," he slurred, his head moving restlessly on Arthur's shoulder.

"It's fine," she replied, and Arthur was impressed by the firm sincerity of her response, by how she was keeping it together. She loosed a hand to reach up and stroke one of Eames' cheeks, her touch not faltering even when he initially flinched away. "Can I help you eat, while Arthur has his dinner?" she asked, and _now_ Arthur could hear the faint quaver in her voice. He ignored it, though, and he didn't think that Eames would notice. He wasn't sure Eames was even hearing her.

After a long moment, during which Eames' lids slid nearly shut, and Arthur very carefully did not meet Ariadne's eyes, in the hopes that neither of them would lose their composure, Eames licked his lips and nodded slightly.

"I.... Yeah... okay...."

Ariadne ran a hand through her own loose, dark hair, and for some reason Arthur could only focus on how delicate the bones of her wrist looked beneath the paleness of her flesh, where her shirt sleeve rode down.

He tried to shift so that Eames was resting more comfortably against his shoulder, but they were really in too awkward of a position. Arthur wasn't about to move either of them, though. He was just glad that his right hand was free. He _could_ eat with his non-dominant hand, but he couldn't be sure he wouldn't make a mess doing so.

It was something of a testament to how hungry he was that even though his stomach was twisting with nerves and his throat was tight with sorrow for how dazed Eames was and how sad Ariadne's eyes were, he still wanted to eat. But it had been a very long time since his last real meal.

Besides, if he paid close attention to feeding himself, he wouldn't have to see Ariadne coaxing and coaching Eames through his own meal.

Because that was just downright fucking painful.

It occurred to Arthur as he finished up the last of his food that he was probably being more than a little selfish, maybe more than a bit of an asshole. But what was done was done. He'd done what he'd had to do to rescue Eames, he'd killed the men who had harmed him, and he was going to be taking care of Eames even after Ariadne had left, so... so it wasn't so bad that he had left this one task to her... was it?

He realized that Eames was finished when the man slumped so far into his shoulder that he nearly fell face-first onto the tray. Arthur caught Eames, propping him up, Ariadne's hands joining his against Eames' bruised chest and shoulders.

"He just fell back asleep," Ariadne said, biting her lip sharply, and it shouldn't have sounded so much like a question.

"Yeah," Arthur responded, turning toward Eames.

Without being asked, Ariadne removed the tray, clambering off the bed and carrying it out of the room.

"Thank you," Arthur pulled himself together in time to call after her, as he maneuvered Eames down, so that he was once again lying under the bedcovers. This caused Eames to frown slightly, his brow furrowing beneath his loose bangs, but he didn't wake.

"Do you want me to watch him while you shower?" Ariadne asked, reappearing suddenly beside the bed.

Arthur arched a brow. Ariadne met his gaze steadily, her lips quirking a little at one corner, and he caved, helpless in the face of her common sense and generosity.

"Thank you," he repeated, rising reluctantly and going to his bag. He couldn't deny the need for a bath, a shave, and a change of clothes. And he was grateful to Ariadne, that he wouldn't have to leave Eames alone while he tended to these tasks. Especially since he _couldn't_ have left Eames alone. Not only would he not have dared, but he wouldn't have been able to force himself away from the man's side. Not without someone he trusted so completely there to take up his self-imposed vigil.

Instead of replying, Ariadne stopped Arthur with a hand on his arm before he could exit the bedroom, rising up on tip-toes to press a light kiss to his cheek.

"You have to take care of yourself too," she informed him seriously, her eyes dark and wide.

Arthur nodded, and then headed for the bathroom, for the shower, not wanting to see whether Ariadne climbed back into bed with Eames.

Not that there would have been anything wrong with it if she had.

+++

The next couple of days in Paris were something of a blur to Arthur.

Eames roused enough to eat and drink and take care of other needs, but remained largely lost in a vague haze. Arthur knew that the man had a lot to recover from, that there was a lot for him to work through, and he was still mending physically, but it was a little frustrating and worrisome.

The doctor Saito had hired came back, by previous arrangement, but after his visit on the second day he declared that he was no longer needed and just gave Arthur more completely unnecessary instructions regarding caring for Eames. While he was glad to know that Eames was well on his way to recovering physically, Arthur was annoyed by this, and he was just as happy to see the back of the man.

Ariadne had sloughed off the job she and Arthur had been working on -- almost immediately after Arthur had left for the States, in fact -- not that Arthur blamed her. She'd passed it on to someone that Cobb had recommended to her, an extractor who had been willing to fly to Paris... and who had also been willing to take the full paycheck. This last made it something of a sweet deal for the man involved, especially considering that nearly all the legwork and set-up had been completed before he had even arrived. Arthur and Ariadne had almost been ready to go; all that Collins and his team had had to do was modify their plans to suit themselves and then move.

Arthur wasn't exactly thrilled about any of this, but Collins wasn't a bad guy so he didn't really begrudge him. Neither Arthur nor Ariadne was hurting for money, and this way Collins was going to _owe_ them both. A hell of a lot, in fact, because the job had paid well and gone off without a hitch.

Arthur had things a lot more important than extraction on his mind, anyway. And now that he had been forced into inactivity, he found to his utter astonishment that it suited him. Well, at least for the time being.

Eames had far more recovering to do, far more to recover _from_ , naturally, but this downtime was actually necessary for both of them. Arthur had run himself ragged for a week, searching for Eames. While he hadn't really felt the effects at the time, a couple of naps, one good night's sleep, and a few home-cooked meals were _not_ all that he needed to get him back on track.

The fact that he found himself curling up in bed beside Eames for the majority of the next two days... well, that just proved this, didn't it. And it didn't _feel_ strange. Mostly, though, Arthur didn't allow himself to think about it rationally. It was just easier that way.

Ariadne spent more time in the apartment than she did away, but she didn't suggest spending the night. She cooked for them, and she sat beside the bed, holding Eames' hand. She never again climbed into bed with Eames, whether Arthur was also in it or not.

"I'm not a threat," she told Arthur firmly, her eyes wide, her expression guileless yet earnest.

He blinked at her in confusion, then flushed as he parsed her meaning. He turned his face away and stared unseeingly out the window, but he didn't refute her words.

He wasn't certain whether she was right or wrong in her assumption.

+++

Ariadne had left for the night on the evening of the second day, and Arthur finally felt as though he was completely caught up on his sleep. He had sent Cobb an email update, as promised. The apartment had no television, not that he would have been tempted to watch any programming anyway. His French was rusty and nothing could have compared to lucid dreaming or to his life the past ten days anyway.

Arthur was wide awake and not a little bored, but he couldn't think of anything to do. Nothing that wouldn't take him away from Eames' side, anyway. And that wasn't an option.

Perhaps it was fortuitous, maybe it was utter chance, but this was the point at which Eames shifted, opened his eyes, and blinked at Arthur. He looked like he was actually awake this time, confused, but not completely dazed, and he met Arthur's gaze with a quizzical gleam to his dark eyes.

He looked better, physically, for which Arthur was grateful. The fact that the man was actually _there_ , was actually _seeing_ Arthur... well, that was even better.

"Hey there," Arthur greeted, his mouth quirking. He was sitting against the headboard again, having just set his laptop aside, and Eames' head was resting on a pillow beside his hip. They were both in their pyjamas; it was just easier than getting dressed when they rarely left the bed and never left the apartment. Ariadne was the one who had been doing the grocery shopping, showing up at their door with loaded bags full of fresh ingredients, and Arthur was ashamed to admit that he had let her. In his defense, she didn't seem to mind; seemed perfectly happy to be able to help in any way he would let her.

"Arthur?" Eames said his name, his voice still a little raspy but nowhere near as bad as it had been every time he'd said it since his rescue. His brow creased in a deep frown, which looked more like confusion than anything else. Before Arthur could stop him or help him, Eames was rolling, levering up onto one elbow. He wasn't sitting, but he was more upright than he had been unaided in all the time since they had arrived here.

Arthur braced himself for the inevitable question, almost wincing already in anticipation, but Eames was silent, casting his gaze around the small bedroom. It was dimly lit, warm light spilling in through the open door from the kitchen. Arthur thought the place was homey, but he wondered how it seemed to Eames, who was essentially seeing it for the first time.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asked, reaching for Eames before he thought.

Eames stared at him blankly, then bit his lip. Instead of responding verbally, he moved into Arthur's space, slowly, carefully, as though he was uncertain of his welcome -- and, really, that made a horrible amount of sense -- then slid his arms around Arthur's waist, hiding his face against Arthur's neck.

Arthur wrapped his own arms around Eames without hesitation, ready to offer any comfort the man was willing to take. Eames was warm, and while he had lost some weight, he was still solid. It was a palpable pleasure, holding him like this, and Arthur didn't allow himself to feel awkward over it.

"It's all right," he said softly, one hand rubbing at the tense line of Eames' shoulders through the thin teeshirt the man was wearing with his cotton pyjama bottoms.

"We're both here," Arthur continued, when Eames didn't respond. "Really here, and awake." Maybe if he answered the question before Eames asked it, it wouldn't hurt as much.

Eames was breathing, but he otherwise did not move against Arthur. He had slumped into the embrace, and yet it was obvious to Arthur that he was still holding himself tense.

"Do you have a totem?" Arthur asked, still rubbing Eames' back. He kept his voice low, put forth the question quietly, not because it was silent in the apartment, but more because it felt like a deeply personal subject, because this felt like an intimate moment.

He thought that Eames wouldn't answer, wondered if the man would fall back asleep like this, but after a long moment, Eames shook his head. His hair tickled the underside of Arthur's chin, and he knew why Eames had always slicked it down so aggressively; that little cowlick at the crown of his head was really out of control. Arthur smiled faintly, amused despite the seriousness of the moment to realize that they had this in common. Not that Arthur had any trouble with a cowlick. No, it was the entirety of his hair that had a tendency to be unruly.

"Never saw the need," Eames rasped, and he pulled away, until Arthur was forced to loose him. They sat side by side, both curled against the headboard, their shoulders nearly touching. Arthur could feel Eames' body heat, could smell him; no cologne, no soap, only a little bit of sleep-sweat overlaying the natural scent of his skin. Arthur missed Eames' warmth in his arms, the man's weight against his chest, but it was Eames who had moved away, so he didn't dare to reach for him again.

"Do you need a mirror?" Arthur asked, figuring that this was the only way Eames could be certain whether or not he was awake; if he attempted and failed to forge a new face over his own.

Eames shook his head, then sighed and slid sideways, until he was resting on Arthur's shoulder after all. "If I'm dreaming, I don't want to know. Don't want to wake."

Arthur scowled. That wasn't a healthy response to the situation, and Eames ought to know that. He probably did. It was painful to recognize that Eames undoubtedly knew and didn't care.

"You're awake, Eames," he snapped. Arthur knew he sounded angry, but that was better than sounding terrified, as far as he was concerned.

Eames chuckled, but the sound was dangerously close to a sob. "I'm willing to take your word for it, darling," he murmured.

Arthur had the sick feeling he was being humored, but he didn't think that browbeating Eames would be his best response to this suspicion, no matter how accurate.

Eames turned toward him once again, his left hand flailing, clumsily, and Arthur grabbed it, holding it in his own.

"What happened?" Eames rumbled, and his head was back on Arthur's shoulder, his cheekbone hard and sharp where he pressed the side of his face into the soft material of Arthur's shirt.

"What do you remember?" Arthur responded, and he was asking as much to keep Eames talking as he was trying to find out how much ground he was going to have to tread over again. Eames had seemed pretty lucid when they had spoken on Saito's jet, but that had been almost immediately after his rescue, it had been two days ago, and he had been lost in a deep, extended daze ever since then.

Eames was still so long that Arthur almost thought he wasn't going to reply. But then he did.

"I remember what happened..." he rasped. "I remember what you did. Never thought I'd end up playing the damsel in distress.... I'll have to find some way to make it up to you, later."

Arthur tried to laugh, but he couldn't. "No need," he said instead. Eames' hand was warm in his, and his fingers had curled around Arthur's, perhaps unconsciously. "You called me for help so I helped; if things had been reversed, you'd have done the same."

He could feel Eames chest moving against his upper arm as the man breathed. He waited silently after his bold statement, wondering whether it was true. This was a strange sort of parallel to Arthur's reaction to the similar claim Saito had made... but Arthur felt that he had grown as a person, even though it had only been three days since then.

"I would have come," Eames eventually murmured. "But would you have called me, I wonder? If you needed help, would you ask?"

"I might," Arthur replied. His free hand twitched with the barely-contained desire to sweep Eames' unruly hair out of his eyes. "There aren't many others I could call. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have a long list of friends."

Eames snorted, and raised his head, peering up at Arthur though long lashes and silken bangs. His mouth curved in something that was very nearly a real smile, and Arthur couldn't help noting that his lips were pink and plush again, looking beyond ripe for kissing. Now was not the time, though.

"Must be why I called you."

Arthur arched a brow. "Was it?"

Eames met his gaze, even though they both had to crane their necks at uncomfortable angles to do so; Eames up and Arthur down, both to one side.

"I have friends," Eames finally said, licking his lips, his eyes dark. "But no one I trust enough to request help from."

Arthur wasn't sure whether he should feel complimented or upset, but his face decided for him as he smiled softly down at Eames. He wasn't even sure he was being counted as a friend, but the fact that Eames trusted him was more than enough for the moment. It was a little frightening to know this, to have Eames speak the words so bluntly, but right now, in this situation, when the worst had already happened and Arthur had already been forced into making a choice and had made it before he'd even realized that there was a choice to be made, he was glad to hear it.

Maybe before that fateful phone call Eames had made, if he'd been asked, Arthur wouldn't have said that he'd be willing to do so much for Eames, might have been made uncomfortable by the pressure this put upon him. But he had already faced the scenario and had already lived up to Eames' trust.

And, unexpectedly, that was a good feeling.

"I'm glad you asked," he told Eames simply. Even with all the thoughts running through his head, nothing more than that needed to be said.

Eames sighed heavily, worming his way into Arthur's embrace, nuzzling Arthur's neck when Arthur shifted lower so that they were both in a better position for this.

"We're in Paris, right?" Eames asked, the question gusting hot and damp against the sensitive skin of Arthur's neck. Arthur tried to restrain his instinctive shiver of reaction, because now was not the time for that. He wondered if there ever would be a time. "Do I remember Ariadne being here?"

"Yes," Arthur replied, lightly rubbing Eames' back. "We're here, we're safe, and we have this place for as long as we want."

Eames went still, though he didn't move from where he was leaning against Arthur. "We?" he queried cautiously.

Arthur went as still as Eames, his brain racing as he tried to parse the meaning behind Eames' reaction. But whatever the cause, there was only one way he could reply. And that was honestly.

"We," he answered firmly.

Eames remained where he was, but Arthur could almost feel him pulling back; mentally and possibly emotionally. He wondered if he'd chosen the wrong response, but it was too late to change it, to take it back.

"Really hope that I don't wake up," Eames whispered into the hollow under Arthur's jaw. And so that was the reason.

"Don't make me hit you," Arthur snapped, which was probably not the most mature response he could have made, _or_ the most healthy thing to say to someone who had been through what Eames had been through. He could feel Eames' lashes flutter against his neck, and he tightened his arms around his broad shoulders.

"So... I'm to understand that if I'm awake, I'm really here and you're really here...?" Eames ventured. The _like this_ was implied, but Arthur heard it loud and clear.

"Yes," he replied simply. He could have said more, but he didn't know what words to speak to try to convince Eames, so he didn't try.

"Ah." Eames shifted against him, but he didn't pull away. Not physically, and he seemed to be less removed emotionally as well. "All right, then."

"Yeah?" Arthur prompted, and he had stopped rubbing Eames' back, but his thumb had a mind of its own and was tracing tiny circles over the soft material of Eames' shirt. "Are we okay?"

"Am... am I allowed to ask you about this later?" Eames asked hesitantly.

"You could ask now," Arthur replied, feeling his stomach twist, knowing what he was offering.

Eames shook his head faintly. "I'm afraid I'm not up to it at the moment," he said quietly, and he did indeed sound as though he was fading fast. "The asking or the answer."

"Okay," Arthur said agreeably enough. This was an unasked for reprieve from an unexpected confrontation. Not a confrontation with Eames. No. More Arthur having to confront his own thoughts and emotions.

He had _thought_ he'd already come to peace with this; his desires, his wants.... But now that he'd almost had to explain them to Eames, when he knew he was probably still going to have to, he realized that it was going to take a little more internal examination before he would be able to put things into words. At least, words that Eames could understand and might accept.

Arthur didn't know how Eames felt, of course. But it had been Arthur that Eames had called when he had needed help, despite their being on different continents. And it was Arthur's chest that Eames was falling asleep against. All of that had to mean _something_. Didn't it?

"I'm going to have questions to ask you later too," he informed Eames, even though he was pretty sure that Eames was already asleep again and he wouldn't be heard.

"Fair enough."

He'd been wrong, then. But not entirely, because Eames' reply had been a barely articulate gust of breath, and a few moments later, he slumped completely limp against Arthur.

Arthur still wasn't sleepy, but he didn't mind lying in bed with nothing to do so much now. Because Eames was a heavy blanket against his upper half, arms loosely slung around his waist, his cheek squashed into the line of Arthur's shoulder, his breathing steady, his sleep uninterrupted.

And because Arthur had a lot of thinking to do. A _lot_ of thinking.

+++

On the third day, Eames was able to carry on an actual conversation with Ariadne. Of course, she did most of the talking, but Eames listened, his eyes bright, and he responded in the right places, proving that he was actually aware and engaged.

Ariadne kept glancing at Arthur and smiling brilliantly, her face lighted up. Arthur couldn't help smiling back, even though he knew how far Eames had yet to go to recover, how far he was from okay right now.

Part of it was the stillness. Arthur had noticed, before, how Eames had always seemed to be in motion, even when he was just sitting. Fidgeting, toying with his pens, with paperclips, with a poker chip that Arthur had thought might be his totem until Eames had told him he didn't have one. He had twisted his chairs, jiggled his leg, his nimble fingers twitching. Rubbing his nose in a nervous tell Arthur didn't think he knew he had. Or maybe he knew and didn't care; Eames had always struck Arthur as being pretty self aware.

Now, though.... Eames held himself still. As though he was afraid to move. As though he was afraid of shattering this illusion of safety, of breaking the dream that Arthur suspected the man often thought he was locked in, no matter how many times Arthur assured him that he was actually awake.

Arthur really hoped that he was wrong about this. But he suspected he wasn't.

Ariadne made them lunch, then she sat beside the bed quietly doing her homework while Eames napped and Arthur got online and did a little catching up. She was still working on it while Arthur made them dinner. He figured it was the least he could do. And he didn't expect that they would be able to depend on Ariadne to cook for them forever. She had a life of her own, she was still going to school despite the amount of money she had made on the Fischer job, and she had a family and friends that she had known for far longer than two slightly disreputable dreamshare workers who were, essentially, thieves. Who were still mostly strangers to her, for all the time they had spent working together preparing for the Fischer job.

Of course, this didn't mean that bonds hadn't formed between them. Ariadne was less closed off than Arthur, less cynical than Eames. Her openness prompted them both to respond in kind, and Arthur knew that they both had come to consider the young woman with a lot more fondness than either had ever expected, heading into the inception project.

He hesitated to think the word "friends", but a part of him knew that this was what Ariadne considered them to be. And she would probably have been hurt if he'd tried to refute it.

"I didn't know you could cook," Ariadne informed Arthur as they sat down at the table in the tiny dining nook. Eames was still in his pyjamas, admittedly, but he'd made it out of the bedroom and into the kitchen under his own power, and he was able to sit, albeit with his back facing the wall so that he didn't have to look over his shoulder every few moments. "This is really good."

Arthur winced, thinking of all the meals that Ariadne had prepared for them during the last few days, but she only grinned at him, wrinkling her nose.

"I shouldn't be surprised, though," she added. "Is there anything you _can't_ do well?" The light tone of her voice and the twinkle dancing in her dark eyes eased any sting these words might otherwise have contained. Arthur didn't take offense where obviously none had been meant.

"I'm terrible at dancing," he offered, actually thinking it over for a moment.

"Now, that's a flat-out lie," Eames drawled, and after his initial startlement at the man joining in the conversation, Arthur grimaced slightly. He'd forgotten all about that ballroom setting in the dreamshare, one of the first times that he and Eames had worked together. "You dance quite passably, Arthur."

"Passably?" Arthur met Eames' gaze, and was pleased to find it clear, direct, and steady. He didn't detect any bitterness or other negative emotion, and so he allowed himself to smile at Eames, keeping his tone easy, teasing. "Thank you for the commendation, Eames. But, honestly, I can only dance in the dreamshare. I'm terrible at it when I'm awake."

Eames simply hummed at this, not seeming entirely convinced. Ariadne demanded to hear about the job in question, and Eames left it to Arthur to tell the tale.

They finished dinner in fine form, and if Eames' gaze was a bit dark and unreadable as he watched Arthur and Ariadne talk, Arthur told himself it was only to be expected. At least Eames was awake, aware, and willing to speak up when he had something to say.

"I'm probably going to be spending less time here after today," Ariadne told them, as Arthur stacked the dirty dishes in the sink, then got the dessert plates down from the cupboard for the gateau Ariadne had brought with the rest of the groceries. "I've got a couple of big projects coming up due that are going to need a lot of my attention."

"You've not been neglecting your studies, surely?" Eames asked, his brow furrowing, his hand squeezing Ariadne's where they were clasped on the tabletop. Eames had never been so physically needy before, Arthur knew, but he was glad to see that the man was willing to pursue and accept comfort any way that he could get it.

He was also _very_ glad to hear Eames ask this question. Because to Arthur this meant that Eames was accepting this evening as reality, didn't think that he was still dreaming. The fact that he was concerned about what happened to Ariadne outside this apartment was proof of that.

"Maybe a little bit," Ariadne said with a shrug and a small smile. "But not too badly. And Professor Miles understands. He says you two met once?"

Eames nodded, but he didn't elaborate. This was news to Arthur; he'd never have thought to connect Cobb's former father-in-law with Eames.... But then, even though Eames had walked the less than legal side of life since long before he had started using the PASIV technology, and Professor Stephen Miles had always been involved in its legitimate uses, the dreamshare community wasn't a large one, and most everyone had heard of everyone else, even if they'd never worked together.

Besides, Arthur would never presume to think he knew everything about anyone; he was a good point man and he had looked into Eames' background quite thoroughly while he'd been searching for him, but he certainly had no pretentions toward omniscience.

"I'm fine, Eames," Ariadne assured him, squeezing his hand. "And I'm still going to spending time here. Just not as much. And I'll call before I stop by."

This last was directed at Arthur as he set a slice of cake in front of her.

"Thank you," he said, and even though he didn't specify what he was thanking her for, Ariadne smiled at him.

Eames said nothing at all, but he seemed to enjoy his dessert. As far as Arthur was concerned, that was the best thing about the evening.

+++

Of course, not every day could go this smoothly. Arthur hadn't expected that they would.

That didn't make dealing with the rougher patches any easier. But Arthur had always been willing to do whatever was necessary when the reward was worth the effort.

And as far as he was concerned, Eames was well worth the effort, which made it necessary, and made him willing.

+++

It wasn't until the fourth day after they'd arrived in Paris that Arthur even thought to realize that not only had Saito gotten them an apartment with only one bedroom, without even asking, but he'd had it furnished with _only one bed_.

Arthur might have been angered by this presumptiveness, but the plain fact of the matter was that it had absolutely been the right choice.

Arthur needed to be with Eames at all times. That wasn't based solely on personal desire -- although, really, the idea of sleeping separately from Eames wasn't a welcome one -- it was an actual need.

That had become agonizingly obvious the one time Arthur had gotten in the shower when he and Eames were alone in the apartment.

Ariadne had called and apologetically told Arthur she wasn't going to be able to make it over at all that day. And Arthur had made the wrong decision. In retrospect he knew that, but he had taken less than five minutes in the shower, and Eames had been asleep. He hadn't thought it would be a problem, but he should have known better than to risk it.

After bathing and pulling on a pair of worn sweatpants, Arthur emerged from the bathroom to find Eames huddled in one corner of the bedroom, a gun that Arthur had obviously not hidden well enough clenched in both hands.

"Shit," Arthur hissed, stomach bottoming out.

Even though the bedroom was dark aside from the one bedside lamp, he could see that Eames' hands were violently trembling, and the glazed expression on his face harkened back to the way Eames had looked when Arthur had first found him in the second dream layer, back in the States.

That. That was not a good memory. Not a good thing.

And the fact that Eames had his hands on a deadly weapon now made it even worse.

"Eames," Arthur said urgently, hoping that his voice would be enough to snap Eames out of it, to bring him back to reality. The gun was loaded, and Arthur knew that Eames was perfectly capable of shooting to kill. What he was even more afraid of, however, was the possibility that Eames might shoot _himself_ , in the mistaken assumption that he was dreaming.

They weren't in the dreamshare now; if anyone got shot, they would _die_.

Eames started at the sound of his name, then stared at Arthur, blinking rapidly. Arthur's stomach sank even more. The gun wasn't aimed directly at Arthur, but it _was_ pointed away from Eames, the muzzle slanted upward, at chest-level. And since Arthur was standing in front of Eames, that meant that he was right in the line of fire.

That was the first thing he was going to have to change.

Arthur entered the room carefully, being sure not to make any sudden movements, and then stepped to one side, approaching Eames that way. He was immensely grateful when the gun did not shift to follow him.

He had caught Eames' attention, but he wasn't able to hold it. Evidently he wasn't considered to be a threat, as Eames' gaze swept the rest of the room sporadically, skipping over Arthur each time. This was what allowed him to get close enough to kneel down next to Eames. He felt a bit of a flashback to the second level of dreaming, even though Eames wasn't chained and bloody... even though Eames had a weapon....

Speaking of which.

"Eames," Arthur tried again, placing his hand atop Eames', as much to prevent the gun from swinging toward him as to get Eames' attention. "Eames, give me the gun, okay?"

He wasn't about to try and wrestle it away. He would if he had to, of course, but he desperately hoped that this wouldn't become necessary, that he would be able to talk Eames into handing it over. The last thing Eames needed right now was any form of violence enacted against him.

"Arthur," Eames whispered, and that was a start. His eyes were dangerously wide when he swung them to meet Arthur's gaze, and his pupils were dilated, though that might have been because of how dark the room was. Arthur _hoped_ that this was the reason, though he suspected it wasn't.

"I won't let anyone hurt you," Arthur promised, knowing his voice reflected the intensity he was feeling but unable to quell it. At least he was pretty sure he wasn't projecting the intense _fear_ that he was feeling.

"I'm not...." Eames licked his lips, and his fingers were tense under Arthur's. Arthur slipped his other arm carefully around Eames' shoulders, hoping with each move that he made that it wasn't the wrong one. "I'm...."

"Eames." Arthur leaned closer. "Can I have the gun?"

"Are you really here?" Eames whispered, turning his face toward Arthur until their noses nearly touched, until they both had to look a little cross-eyed to meet one another's gazes. "Are we...?"

"I'm here," Arthur replied, whispering in return. "You're here. We're both here, in an apartment in Paris. We're safe. I swear it to you."

"I'm awake?"

This was the question Arthur had been dreading all this time, and it wasn't any less terrible than expected when Eames finally uttered it. This was probably as much because of the weak, wary tone of voice in which Eames asked it, as because of the uncertainty that _caused_ him to ask in the first place.

"Yes," he replied shortly. "Now, _please_ , give me the gun."

Whether it was the naked terror in his voice, the firmness of his grip on Eames' hands, or the reality of his saying "please", Eames loosened his grip on the weapon and allowed Arthur to take it from him.

Arthur reclaimed it with a breath of relief, thumbing on the safety and setting it behind him. Then he gave in to instinct and wrapped both his arms around Eames, scooting as close as he could when they were both sitting awkwardly on the floor, their legs getting in the way.

He pressed his forehead against Eames' jaw. His hair was still wet and he was only wearing a pair of old sweatpants, but right now that didn't matter. His heart was beating double time against his breastbone and he could still feel the fear that Eames might shoot him, that Eames might shoot _himself_ surging through him even though the gun was out of reach now. He was abruptly exhausted, tired of being the strong one.

"I'm sorry," Eames mumbled, shifting, one of his knees knocking into Arthur's chest, but then they were able to slot together a little more comfortably. "It's hard-- It's so hard to... to...."

"It's all right," Arthur assured him, even though it really wasn't. He straightened up, meeting Eames eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze to the dark patches his damp hair had left on Eames' old grey teeshirt. He wasn't embarrassed, either by his neediness or by his fear, but this moment was so intimate. He wasn't quite sure how to take it himself, much less how Eames was taking it.

Eames was still against him, one of his arms around Arthur's waist, the other hand resting limp in his lap. He wasn't exactly holding Arthur close, but he wasn't rejecting the embrace or trying to pull away.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and Arthur had no idea what it was exactly that Eames was apologizing for, but he knew he was going to get all of his guns out of the apartment just as soon as possible. Normally he wouldn't have felt safe without a backup weapon or two, but when he was keeping company with a man who was used to spending time in dreamshare, where death meant waking, and who kept questioning whether he was in reality or not....

 _God_. It was no wonder Cobb had been a wreck even before Mal had killed herself.

"Let's get to bed," Arthur suggested, pulling away and rising to his feet. Ignoring the discarded gun for the moment -- because as long as he wasn't still holding it, Eames was far more important to him -- he reached down.

After a long pause, Eames took Arthur's proffered hands. It was a testament to how much weight he had lost in the last week and a half that Arthur had virtually no difficulty in pulling him to his feet.

"You know how I know this isn't a dream?" Eames murmured, stumbling forward slightly as soon as he was fully upright, one arm snaking around Arthur's waist and his head falling to rest on Arthur's shoulder.

"How?" Arthur asked, giving Eames a moment. Anything, so long as Eames accepted that he wasn't dreaming, didn't try to shoot himself, didn't fear that his captors were going to burst in and begin torturing him again. Of course, there was also the fact that Arthur needed this physical closeness as well. But this moment wasn't about him. It had to be all about Eames.

Eames didn't raise his head, speaking into Arthur's chest, but his words clear enough that Arthur had no problem hearing them. "Because you're standing here in a pair of ratty sweats, with wet hair, and you've offered to take me to bed."

Arthur wished that he could find the humor in this, but he couldn't even bring himself to smile. He was coming down from the adrenaline and was beginning to feel a little sick and shaky because of it. Arthur hated anything that made him feel weak and out of control. He didn't blame Eames. This was all the fault of the men who had done this to Eames, had made him this way. But that didn't help Arthur to feel any better about the whole situation.

"Could you try to keep that in mind, then?" he requested, and he was appalled to hear his voice tremble and break in the middle of the sentence. He raised one hand, clasping his fingers over the nape of Eames' neck. They were standing so close, their chests touching with only the material of Eames' shirt between them, one of Eames' arms around Arthur's waist, one of Arthur's arms around Eames' shoulders.

"Sorry," Eames whispered, and those were his lips, brushing the line of Arthur's neck. Not quite a kiss, but definitely a deliberate caress.

"If I promise not to leave you alone again," Arthur continued, not ignoring the feeling of that plush mouth touching him so intimately, but setting it aside for the moment, "Do you promise not to try to shoot yourself?"

"Was that what you were afraid of?" Eames raised his head and blinked at Arthur. His distress seemed to have mostly faded and he looked tired, his face drawn. Arthur could sympathize; now that the immediate danger of Eames having his hands on a gun had passed, he was ready to crash, and hard. They really ought to get to the bed. Both of them.

"It was one of my fears," Arthur admitted. "Not that I wasn't a little worried about catching a bullet myself."

Eames searched his face, his own features intent, and Arthur wondered what was going on behind those hooded eyes.

"Would it make you feel better if I promise not to shoot myself?" Eames finally asked, and Arthur registered the fact that both of Eames' arms were around him now, but the majority of his attention was on the man's words. "I'll leave that to you. If it ever becomes necessary."

Arthur's brows rose. "It won't be," he said firmly. That was true, considering that he didn't have any intention of either of them using a PASIV device any time in the near future. Ariadne was holding the one that she and Arthur had been using before Arthur had left for the States, as well as the one that he'd appropriated from the three bastards who had been holding Eames. After all, they hadn't needed it once he had killed them. "But, yes, that promise would make me feel better."

"I promise, then." Eames smirked faintly, even though his eyes were dark. "I would never shoot you, Arthur," he added. "Not even if I thought I was dreaming."

"I'm very glad to hear that." Arthur tried not to sound too dry, because he actually _was_ glad to hear it. On the other hand.... "But, Eames, I wasn't sure you were _seeing_ me."

Eames' expression fell a little, and he opened his mouth, but didn't say anything.

"Bed," Arthur ordered, instead of pursuing the subject. His knees were wobbly, and he could feel that Eames was still trembling slightly. He tugged Eames toward the piece of furniture in question and Eames moved with him easily

The two of them climbed onto the mattress, slipping between the covers. Without waiting to see whether Eames was inclined to pull away, Arthur tugged him close once again. After the scare that Eames had given him, he thought that he was excused in this. And he was gratified when Eames moved into his embrace easily.

"I'm not sure what I was seeing," Eames confessed, responding to what Arthur had said earlier, his voice soft, his lashes lowered. He bit his lip and Arthur suffered the utterly inappropriate desire to kiss the man. Now was so very much not the time for that, though. "I woke up alone and I couldn't tell whether I was awake or asleep, whether it was going to be you walking through that door, or whether it was going to be Harris, or Taylor, or Poplin."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, giving in to a more innocuous desire and reaching up to brush Eames' bangs out of his eyes. He knew his own were falling rampant, his hair beginning to curl as it dried, but that didn't matter. "I shouldn't have left you alone like that."

Eames loosed a harsh sound that was supposed to be a laugh. "Oh, God." He bowed his head, his forehead knocking hard against Arthur's collarbone. "This is what I'm reduced to? I'm supposed to be a man, not a great bleeding baby in need of a sitter. We were trained for this, weren't we?"

Arthur frowned, shifting to run his fingers through the hair at the back of Eames' head, smoothing down that stubborn cowlick. He wondered whether Eames was getting a little lost again. The two of them, he and Eames, had never worked for the same government agency -- or even the same government. Still, there was no reason he couldn't respond to the question, even if it hadn't been one hundred percent correct.

"Eames. Don't you remember why they stopped using the PASIV technology in the military? There's only so many times a man can bear to be shot, stabbed, and killed, even in his dreams. To be perfectly honest, I'm stunned that you're doing as well as you _are_."

Eames was quiet and still for over a full minute. Arthur continued to run his fingers through his short, straight hair, wondering what was going on in the man's head.

"Not to say I'm not also extremely glad you're doing so well," he added. Then, when Eames still didn't respond, he continued. "Because I am. And don't worry about how long it might take you to feel safe and centered again."

"What if that never happens?" Eames whispered, twitching against Arthur. "What if...." He choked, burrowing closer.

"I'll be here for you as long as you need me, Eames," Arthur replied without hesitating. He didn't know if this was the answer that Eames needed, but it was the one that Arthur had for him, and it was completely honest. "I don't need to work for a while, since I've got my Fischer money tucked away. I'm not leaving here. So if you wake up and you're not sure whether you're dreaming or not, just ask me."

"Can I ask you something else?" Eames asked, after another long moment of silence. He didn't raise his head.

Arthur almost responded that Eames could always _ask_ , but there was a time and place for their usual snark, and this was not it.

"You can," he said instead.

Again, Eames was silent for so long that Arthur wondered whether their conversation was over, but then he pulled back, resting his head on the pillow beside Arthur's head. His brow was furrowed deeply under his loose bangs. He licked his lips, his gazed fixed on Arthur's own mouth, instead of meeting his eyes.

"On Saito's plane.... I'm not sure what was real and what wasn't... but...."

Arthur was abruptly certain that he knew what Eames was going to ask.

Eames' tongue traced over his lips again and Arthur fought the instinctive reaction of biting his own lower lip... or leaning forward to run his own tongue over Eames' inviting mouth. When Eames asked his question, it was not a surprise. "Did you kiss me?"

"I did," Arthur answered without hesitation. Eames didn't deserve any prevarication, and it had been Arthur who had kissed the man, when he had thought Eames was sleeping, in fact. If anyone was in the wrong here, it was Arthur.

"I'm sorry," he added, when Eames didn't respond, only stared at him.

Eames frowned. "Don't apologize," he said, so softly Arthur almost couldn't hear him. If they hadn't almost been nose to nose, sharing the same pillow, he might not have been able to. "Not unless you didn't mean it."

Arthur blinked. Out of any response he might have expected, this one had not been on the list.

He felt as though they were hovering right on the verge of something, that his next words could very well be vital. And yet he also felt a strange sense of calm. Because Eames had said something first. And because they were both in this together. And because he already knew his answer; all he had to do was speak it.

"Of course I meant it," he said, trying to sound matter of fact and not annoyed. Because he _wasn't_ annoyed, but sometimes he found it all too easy to hide behind that thin curtain of dismissive response. Now was not the time for that, however. Eames needed him to be completely honest. _Arthur_ needed to be honest. "Why would I have done it otherwise?"

Eames was staring at him as though he was speaking in an unfamiliar language. "I.... That was what I was wondering," he finally said weakly. "When I wasn't thinking that I imagined the whole thing."

"I'm sorry I confused you," Arthur said, suddenly hyperaware that he still had one hand on Eames' head, that he would only have to lean forward a couple of inches in order to kiss Eames again.

He still hadn't decided whether this would be welcome, so he wasn't going to do it.

Even though he wanted to.

Even though he didn't think that it would be unwelcome.

"But why did you do it?" Eames pursued, and Arthur could feel the man's breath breaking hot and moist against his cheeks. Their faces were very close.

He only had one answer for that question. "Because... well, because I meant it."

Eames' incongruously long lashes flickered wildly. "You're just confusing me more," he admitted.

Arthur smiled, a little wryly. "I'm sorry," he said again, feeling as though the conversation was going in ridiculous circles and yet somehow moving forward at the same time. He moved his hand down from Eames' hair to cup his jaw. "Would it be all right if I kissed you again? While you're awake this time?"

Eames' eyes widened.

"You don't have to say yes," Arthur hastened to assure the man. "I won't leave you if you say no. I won't leave you, no matter what. Not unless you ask me to, and mean it."

Eames was still staring at him, but there was something brighter in his eyes, a tiny quirk to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but very nearly. "Arthur."

"Yes?" He knew he should move his hand away from Eames' face, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"You're talking too much." Eames pink tongue traced the inner curve of his pinker lips, and Arthur was leaning forward before he knew it.

"Is that a yes?" Arthur asked, hesitating, his mouth hovering a breath away from Eames'. He hadn't gotten permission yet, and this was one time when he wasn't going to take anything for granted.

"I think," Eames whispered, and his hand was warm and heavy where it came to rest on the bare skin above the waistband of Arthur's sweatpants, "I think it's only fair that this time _I_ get to kiss _you_."

"Oh. Well then," Arthur managed, before Eames pushed forward that crucial half inch and pressed their lips together.

It was different kissing Eames when he was awake. It was different than it had been in Arthur's imagination; though he blushed to admit even in the privacy of his own thoughts that he had imagined it. He had, though. And it hadn't been like this.

It was a gentle kiss, almost a chaste kiss. And yet with a mouth like Eames had, it couldn't be anything other than completely sensual. Arthur was pretty sure that this wasn't only his own perception of things.

It wasn't a long kiss. Eames had clearly been exhausted by his panic attack, and Arthur didn't think it was too much of a stretch to assume that _neither_ of them was quite certain what exactly this was, despite Arthur's own feelings of assurance, despite the fact that Eames had initiated the kiss this time.

Eames lips were plush and giving against his, but he pulled back before Arthur could come to fully appreciate the experience.

Arthur wondered whether it would happen again.

He wondered whether it _should_ happen again.

"I... I did mean that, Arthur," Eames whispered against Arthur's mouth. "In case you were wondering."

Arthur licked his lips, feeling Eames shudder against him when this meant that he also licked _Eames'_ lips, they were still that close. He fought the urge to nip at Eames' fat lower lip, trace the full upper lip with the tip of his tongue, because Eames was falling asleep in front of him and now wasn't the time. It was terribly tempting, though.

"Thank you," he said simply. Because he wasn't sure whether he'd been wondering or not, but either way it was good to know that Eames was as serious about this as Arthur was.

"Do you mind if I sleep now?" Eames mumbled against his mouth, and Arthur couldn't help but smile.

"Sleep, Eames," he said, shifting them both so that Eames was resting against his upper chest again, his fingers buried in Eames' soft hair. "I'll be here, and when you wake up, you'll be awake. And I'll still be here, I swear it."

There was still the gun on the floor, and Arthur's other firearms to be safely rid of, but once Eames was asleep Arthur could sneak out of bed to deal with that, getting back in plenty of time to keep his promise. That was his first and most vital priority.

"Thank you," Eames sighed, snuggling close and relaxing almost immediately.

Arthur felt loose of limb and sleepy as well, the shock of adrenaline he'd experienced when he'd walked in and found Eames with his gun completely gone by now. He had to stay awake long enough to deal with his firearms, but after that....

Well, after that, bed, and sleep, and Eames' embrace were waiting.


	5. Yet Its Knell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur might have expected that things would be different after he and Eames had kissed, but they really weren't.

Arthur might have expected that things would be different after he and Eames had kissed, but they really weren't.

There _were_ some changes. Arthur felt less awkward about reaching for Eames when he sensed that the man needed something to hold onto, something to ground him in reality. And sometimes he caught Eames giving him strange, wondering looks when he didn't think Arthur would see him.

But for the most part there was no radical shift in their dynamic. Well. Not that their dynamic hadn't been radically shifted ever since Arthur had found Eames trapped two levels down in an extended dream of torture and death....

Not much change to their _new_ dynamic, then, that was.

Ariadne still came over to visit, bringing them groceries and other supplies, though now Arthur insisted on paying her back for them and doing at least half the cooking. Eames still flinched away from sudden movements and unexpected touches, whether it was Arthur or Ariadne. And he still had trouble distinguishing reality from memory. Most of the time he was lucid, and occasionally Arthur and Ariadne could see echoes of the man he had used to be, but other times he got that glazed, wide-eyed look that Arthur had learned to dread. That was when Arthur would pull Eames into his arms until he stopped shaking, until he was willing to acknowledge that he was really awake, that no one was going to show up to hurt him.

Overall, there were more good moments than bad, but the bad were still heartbreaking and came far too often and almost always unexpectedly, no matter how often Arthur reminded himself to look out for them.

A week passed this way, strangely quickly despite their forced inactivity. Eames had been safe for as long as he had been held captive... but of course, this was only true in regular time. In dreamshare time, Eames had endured a much, much longer period of time locked in a terrible loop of fear and pain, being beaten by men who only wished him ill, lost in a dazed, dreaming, drugged state even when he wasn't in the dreamshare.

Arthur still found himself wishing that there had been some way he could have prevented this from happened, wished that he had found and rescued Eames sooner. But he was at heart a pragmatist; it was no good wanting to change the past. He could only look forward and try to fix what had been done. Try to make up for the ways in which he had failed Eames.

"I'm glad it was for Ylsa," Eames rasped, out of the blue, on the evening of the seventh day.

"What?"

Arthur was currently curled in a corner of the bedroom with Eames, arms around his shoulders, forehead pressed against the other man's. It was always better to stay with Eames, wherever he was; whether he had a panic attack on the bed, retreated to the bathroom, or simply huddled in a corner, hiding his face in his knees. Arthur was grateful that this apartment didn't have any closets and that the wardrobe was too small for anyone over the age of ten to crawl into.

He supposed he should also be glad Eames had yet to decide crawling under the bed was a good thing. Although, if he had, Arthur would have followed him there as well.

Arthur deeply regretted the necessity for it, but the truth of the matter was that he really didn't mind sitting or lying beside Eames, soothing him until he came uncoiled and relaxed, holding him for as long as Eames would let him. Sometimes Eames pulled away, sometimes he moved closer, but he always seemed to calm more quickly when Arthur held him.

They still hadn't discussed the kiss, and they hadn't kissed again, but Arthur didn't really mind. He didn't want to rush Eames and Eames... well, Arthur wasn't sure why he was holding back, but he suspected it had something to do with that fact that Eames knew he wasn't at his best right now. Even though Arthur didn't feel that this should have stopped the man, he was willing to respect that it had, and he was willing to wait on Eames.

"What do you mean?" he asked, fingers tangled in Eames' hair. It had taken him a moment to place the name, to remember who Ylsa was; the woman whose death had set this whole thing into motion, even though she, of course, didn't know this.

"Well." Eames shifted against Arthur, lowering his head to rest on his shoulder, scooting a little closer. His fingers were locked in Arthur's collar, pulling it askew. He had calmed, was no longer shaking, but he didn't seem inclined to let go or to pull away. "Not that any of it was my idea of a good time," he continued. "But if I was going to be tortured and killed for weeks..." he swallowed tightly, "For... for months on end in the dreamshare... at least it wasn't for one of my many other transgressions. Sleeping with the wrong man or woman, say. Or stealing someone's prize pony."

"You've done that?" Arthur asked, too surprised to censor himself despite the dark tone this conversation had taken.

Eames chuckled faintly, his fingers flexing in Arthur's collar. "Perhaps one day I'll tell you the tale." He sighed heavily, and Arthur could hear him lick his lips, even though his head was down, out of Arthur's line of sight. "I.... See, the thing is, I still feel guilty for what happened to Ylsa. So it's fitting that it was for her sake that they took the pound out of my hide."

Arthur snorted violently. "Eames. I highly doubt the bastards did it for anyone other than themselves."

"You may have a point." Eames agreed, then he fell silent.

Arthur wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came to him. So he figured it was better to remain quiet than to risk saying the wrong thing.

"You don't have to say anything," Eames whispered, almost as though he had read Arthur's mind.

"I feel like I should," Arthur admitted. Eames' hair was soft between Arthur's fingers, his skull hard beneath his scalp. Arthur was glad that Eames hadn't pulled away yet. Sometimes, not every time, but sometimes Arthur felt that _he_ needed these moments of close comfort as much as Eames did.

He was pretty sure Eames was aware of this, and that that might be a large part of the reason he didn't pull away, at least some of the time. Although, really, he preferred to think that Eames needed these embraces as much as he did.

"I'm sure Ylsa wouldn't have been pleased by what those assholes did to you," he said. He didn't know much about the Angus job -- it was only one of many that he had looked at when he'd been researching Eames' history -- but he had seen a photo of the woman in question. Ylsa Brom had been pretty, a delicate little thing with golden hair and wide blue eyes, and Arthur recalled thinking she'd had a kind face. He didn't know anything more about her than that, and how she had died, but he usually trusted his instincts on matters like this.

"No." Eames sounded calmer, and he loosed his grip on Arthur's shirt, smoothing the crumpled collar with clumsy fingers. Sometimes Arthur wondered if Eames' hands would ever be as nimble as they had used to be -- quick thief's hands -- but he reminded himself that Eames was still recovering. And he was always more shaky after he'd had one of his episodes. "No, she'd have been horrified. Poor dear. She always was too good for those pricks she kept company with."

Arthur kept quiet. He wanted to ask Eames what had happened. Ylsa Brom had been new to the dreamshare business, had died during her second job; the one Eames had been involved in. Official word, the one in the local police report, was that she had suffered a drug overdose. Scuttlebutt in the dreamshare community was that there had been a problem with an experimental Somnacin compound, which had reacted badly with a preexisting condition that no one had known about. Arthur didn't think that was the whole story, because then why would those three men have blamed Eames? But he didn't feel comfortable putting the question to Eames, and Eames hadn't yet volunteered the information.

"When did Ariadne say she was going to get here?" Eames asked, effectively changing the subject. Evidently he still wasn't ready to talk about it. And since Arthur was only interested for his own curiosity's sake, had no other need to know, it wasn't his place to pursue the subject.

"Probably around half an hour from now," he replied, glancing at the closest clock. He was glad that Eames had calmed before Ariadne had arrived, though naturally he'd have preferred if this hadn't happened at all. Eames hadn't gotten lost in a cloud of confusion and fear when Ariadne was there, which was a good thing as far as Arthur was concerned. He told himself it was because he wouldn't have wanted to worry her, because Eames wouldn't have wanted her to see him at his most vulnerable, not because Arthur himself was selfish and unwilling to share the responsibility of comforting the man.

He had a feeling he was lying to himself, but that was all right. He'd been on an honesty kick lately, both with Eames and with himself, and could afford to obfuscate a little.

Right?

"Can... can I help you make dinner?" Eames asked, sitting up and meeting Arthur's gaze. There were still dark circles around his eyes and lines on his face that hadn't been there before, but he looked so much better than he had a week ago that Arthur felt a small surge of relief every time he paused and really _looked_ at him.

And the fact was that he did that a lot more often than he realized.

Eames usually stayed in the kitchen with Arthur while he cooked unless Ariadne was there to distract him and keep him company, and after every meal he dried the dishes that Arthur washed -- except for the times his hands were shaking too badly -- but this was the first time he had offered to actually _help_ with the cooking.

Arthur retrieved his hand from where he'd been stroking Eames' hair, and if his thumb traced the line of Eames' jaw along the way... well, the tips of Eames' fingers had also brushed against the sharp edge of Arthur's collarbone above his shirt collar as Eames withdrew his own touch. Maybe they both needed this, maybe they both needed the contact.

"That is, if you trust me with a knife," Eames added, with a bitter twist to his mouth that wasn't a smile.

"That's not funny," Arthur snapped back before he could stop himself, scowling. He'd removed the firearms from the apartment, but they wouldn't have been able to have many meals without kitchen utensils. And so far Eames hadn't shown any tendencies toward arming himself with a blade when he was afraid he was still trapped in the dreamshare, much less causing himself any sort of self-inflicted harm.

Arthur was reminded again of Cobb and Mal, and he sympathized more with his erstwhile partner than he ever had before. Even though he was _fairly_ sure Eames was joking. It wasn't a very good joke, though. It wrenched at Arthur's heart and made his pulse speed with sudden anxiety.

"Sorry," Eames murmured, casting his gaze down. "Sorry. That was in poor taste and I apologize."

Arthur stared at Eames long and hard, but decided it would probably be best to just let it go. If he made a big deal over this one throwaway comment, threw the fit over it that was on the tip of his tongue, it might become cemented in Eames' mind. And then it might be there, larger, more important, an actual _possibility_ the next time Eames had a one of his breaks with reality. While a knife was less dangerous than a gun, in the hands of someone who knew what they were doing it could be deadly. Arthur knew that Eames had had plenty of training in knife work.

So, instead of fussing, Arthur moved the conversation forward, skipping over that unfortunate moment as though he hadn't felt a burst of wild panic at the mere thought.

"I would love it if you helped me with dinner," he answered honestly, keeping his voice level and pleasant, rising easily and tugging Eames to his feet as well.

The smile that he got in return made his entire week.

+++

"Cobb invited me to come and visit him," Ariadne told them, once they had finished eating dinner and were lounging in the living room area, having their dessert and socializing.

Ariadne was sitting on the loveseat, her shoes off and her legs crossed underneath her. She looked tiny, but Arthur knew how strong she really was, mentally, emotionally, and intellectually as well as physically. Arthur and Eames were on the sofa. While Eames had started out sitting beside Arthur, now, nearly half an hour after they had moved to this room from the kitchen, he was curled up with his head pillowed on Arthur's thigh. Arthur had realized several minutes after the fact that he was running his fingers soothingly through Eames' hair and he'd paused a moment, but he hadn't stopped. Because Eames was lying there, relaxed, breathing evenly. And Ariadne didn't seem to think anything of it.

Actually, she was looking at both of them with a distinctly fond expression. Arthur felt himself flush faintly, but he trusted Ariadne would ignore it if he did.

"Are you going to go?" he asked curiously. Because while she had dropped this announcement into conversation casually, it was kind of a big deal.

"I'm not sure," she said, pursing her lips and absently picking at the edge of the scarf she was wearing. "It might be nice to see him again. I'd like to see how he is now that that he's home, safe. Now that he's come to terms with what happened to Mal." She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "And it could be neat, to see his children outside of his dreams; the real kids, instead of projections."

"Phillipa and James are good kids," Arthur offered, because it was true. He knew he didn't possess the knack for dealing with children that some people seemed to have naturally, but Cobb and Mal had done well when they had decided to reproduce, and had done even better raising the resultant daughter and son.

At least up until Mal's break with reality, her suicide, and Cobb's flight from the country.

But Arthur had been to visit since the remaining members of the family had been reunited, and he could vouch for the fact that all three of them were doing marvelously. Arthur was evidently a favorite with Phillipa and James, even though he had barely spent any time with them. And Cobb had calmed down and settled into single fatherhood beautifully. Arthur hadn't expected anything else. None of them would ever get over Mal's death completely... but the Cobb family had managed to move on and they were stronger than ever.

"I'm sure they'd like you," he added. Because this was something he was certain of. Cobb liked Ariadne and that would be enough to gain her favor in his kids' eyes, even independent of their own initial impressions. Which Arthur assumed wouldn't differ too wildly from anyone else's. There was just something about her that drew people in. Much the same as Cobb's inbuilt charisma, only without that edge of darkness, of danger. And, if Arthur was honest, of occasional selfishness.

"What about you?" Ariadne asked curiously. She glanced down at Eames and smiled softly. Arthur wondered whether the man was asleep, but figured he probably wasn't. Even though Eames was relaxed where he was lying almost in Arthur's lap, there was a sort of wakefulness to him. Arthur could usually tell when Eames was actually asleep, and he didn't get that sense now.

"What _about_ us?" he asked, frowning slightly in confusion.

The corners of Ariadne's lips turned up even more, her face brightening, and Arthur didn't have to speculate as to the cause. He scowled at her, but didn't really mean the expression and she knew it.

"How long are you staying in Paris?" she clarified.

Eames had gone stiff and still, barely breathing, and Arthur made very sure that his fingers didn't falter in carding through the man's hair for an instant.

"As long as it takes," he replied smoothly, without hesitation, trying to will Ariadne not to ask how long _what_ took.... And whether he succeeded or whether she was simply intelligent enough to know better, she didn't.

Instead, she nodded, and her smile lessened but didn't fade entirely. "What do you think, Arthur?" she asked, settling more deeply into the armchair. "Should I go and visit Cobb?"

"It depends," he replied, after giving it a long moment's thought. At the arch of one of her dark brows, he clarified. "It would depend on why you were going.... And it also depends on why Cobb invited you."

Ariadne's expression was thoughtful and she nodded again. "I can probably answer that first question if I think about it long enough. But I've no clue about that second one. Do _you_ have any ideas?"

"Me?" Arthur asked in surprise.

"Well." Ariadne waved a hand gracefully. "You've probably been the person closest to Cobb for the last two years."

Arthur blinked. He hadn't thought of it that way. Though he supposed Ariadne was right. On the other hand.... "You're the one who's been to limbo with him, seen the world that he and Mal created," he returned seriously. "And you had far more effect on him in the short time you two knew each other than I managed in all the years we worked together. He told you the truth about Mal and inception first. I'd suspected, but you were the first to actually get the whole story out of him."

Ariadne's lips had parted in a silent little "o" and Arthur remembered why he had stolen that kiss in the second dream level, in the hotel that she had designed and he had dreamed. She really was beautiful; all the more so because she was smart, strong-willed, and stubborn. So very, very stubborn.

Ultimately, though, she wasn't his type. She could have been, maybe, in another lifetime. If Eames had never existed.

And there it was. Well, he'd already mostly come to grips with the way he felt about Eames. Now he was just waiting to see how _Eames_ felt about _him_. Eames might have said that he had made it obvious, if pressed, but Arthur wasn't about to take anything for granted between them. Not after all that had been done to Eames.

"The main question here," Eames spoke up unexpectedly, breaking into Arthur's thoughts, his voice a low husk that sent a curl of heat through Arthur's core, "Is whether you _want_ to go."

Ariadne nodded, thick lashes falling to hide her dark brown eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

Eames had calmed a little after Arthur had managed to avoid the question of how long they would be staying in Paris and why, but one of his hands was clasping Arthur's knee in a manner that was almost painful. Arthur shifted his hand from Eames' hair to rub his upper back through the material of his shirt. Eames was warm beneath the cotton, his muscles still firm, even though he'd yet to get back to a daily exercise routine. Arthur thought absently that he should suggest it, for both of them. It might be a good way to burn off some energy, to spend some time every day. They couldn't just sit around all the time and being more healthy physically might help Eames to feel more healthy mentally and emotionally. Might give Eames more of a sense of control, might help him to feel more as though he could be sure that his body was real, that he was truly awake.

"Of course I'm right," Eames rumbled, and he might have been trying for confident, maybe even smug, but mostly he just sounded sleepy.

"All right, I think I should get going, guys," Ariadne said, a little absently, and Arthur could _see_ her mind working away. Puzzling over Cobb's invitation, Considering her potential response to it. She would want solitude to really give it all of her attention, and she'd already gotten the best advice that the two of them could give her.

"Let us know what you decide," he said as she got to her feet and pulled on her shoes. "One way or the other."

"I will." She crossed over to the sofa, bending and pressing a kiss to Arthur's forehead, then bending even lower to kiss Eames' cheek. "I'll lock the door behind myself. I don't think I'll be able to make it tomorrow, but I'll try to stop by with lunch the day after. I'll text you."

"Have a good night," Arthur told her.

"Be careful out there," Eames said, rolling further onto his back and fixing Ariadne with an intent stare. This was the first time he had expressed so much concern when Ariadne had left for the night, and Arthur took that as a good sign, even as he spread his hand over Eames' upper chest, trying to sooth him.

Ariadne looked unsettled as she met Eames' gaze, even though she did her best to hide this, and she assured him immediately. "I'm always careful. And I'm trained in self defense, Eames. Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Then her eyes fell to where Arthur was rubbing Eames' chest and her troubled expression lightened, her eyes softening and growing warm.

"Good night, you guys," she said before she slipped out, closing the door behind her. There was a sliding chain lock that Arthur was going to have to get later, but it wasn't as though security was truly an issue. Arthur made sure all the locks were in place before they slept every night for one reason only, and that reason was Eames. Arthur would do anything to make sure that Eames felt safe, and a few extra locks on the door were small inconvenience as far as he was concerned.

The apartment was silent for long moments after Ariadne was gone, the only sounds the ones that made it up from the streets below, muffled through the glass of the windows.

Eames turned over further, rolling onto his back, looking up at Arthur. Before he could stop himself or tell himself it was a bad idea, Arthur found he was tracing the sharp angles of Eames' jaw with a light fingertip. Eames remained clean shaven mainly because Arthur was doing the task for him, worried that Eames might hurt himself, and he hadn't ever given the man a choice, just did it daily.

Once he realized what he was doing Arthur gave passing consideration to stopping, to pulling his hand away... but he didn't want to and so he didn't do it.

"Do you think she'll go?" Eames asked, his knees tucked up so that he could fit on the sofa beside Arthur, hands at rest on his belly. He lay passive under Arthur's touch, but his quiet acceptance made it clear that it was welcome.

"I don't think even she knows yet," Arthur replied. And was that his thumb tracing over the lush curve of Eames' lower lip? The swell was plush and warm against the pad, so he guessed it must be. "I should call Cobb and ask him why he invited her."

Eames chuckled, the sound rumbling low, deep in his chest. "Now, is that any of your business, Arthur?" he asked, tone serious though his eyes were bright with amusement.

Arthur smirked down at him. "Ariadne told us about it, asked our advice," he replied. "That makes it my business."

Eames grunted and sat upright, curling beside Arthur, close enough that their shoulders were pressed together. "If you say so," he said agreeably, but he didn't sound too terribly invested in the subject.

"Are you ready for bed?" Arthur asked. It was relatively early yet, but Eames was still recovering and they usually retired shortly after dinner. Arthur didn't mind, even though he sometimes had trouble falling asleep. But so long as Eames was sleeping, safe and sheltered in the circle of his arms, it was worth it as far as Arthur was concerned.

Eames was silent for a long moment, and Arthur wondered whether they were going to talk about all the things that they needed to talk about. He wondered at the strange sense of relief he got at the thought of this.

In the end, though, it didn't prove to be the time for that, though. And that was also a relief of a sort.

"Yeah, okay," Eames yawned, and he rose from the sofa without Arthur's assistance.

But when they slipped under the covers, Eames rolled into Arthur's chest, tucking his head under Arthur's chin as had become his norm. And so Arthur figured that everything was still all right between them.

+++

The next morning Arthur slept in while Eames got up early. Of course, Arthur didn't know this until he woke up to the doubly delicious smell of brewing coffee and cooking waffles.

It was more the cold sheets beside him that captured his attention, however.

"Whu?" he mumbled into his pillow, bleary and barely conscious, then he came awake all at once as he realized that he was alone in bed. "Shit!"

His momentary panic subsided when he recognized the scents of breakfast filling the bedroom, but he still made his way to the kitchen as quickly as his bare feet would take him.

"Eames?"

Eames turned and smiled at Arthur. He was still only wearing a teeshirt, but he had on a pair of slacks instead of pyjama bottoms. He also had on an apron that Arthur'd had no idea existed. Neither he nor Ariadne had ever bothered with anything like that.

It was probably a good thing Eames had dug it up, though, Arthur thought, as he took in the scene before him. The apron was liberally dusted with flour, as was a goodly portion of the clothing underneath it, and Eames had a streak of what looked like waffle batter on one cheek.

Arthur could feel his mouth curving in an answering smile. How could he not smile? There were lines of flour on the back of Eames' slacks, where he had clearly wiped his hands, and Arthur's fingers twitched to trace them.

He crossed to pour himself a cup of coffee instead.

"Good morning, Arthur," Eames said, as though this whole scenario were perfectly normal. "I hope you're hungry."

"I am," Arthur replied, leaning against the counter beside the stove. The oven was set to warm, radiating heat, and this and his coffee were a pleasant counterpoint to the mild chill of the morning.

Eames forked a perfectly golden-brown waffle off of the iron that Arthur hadn't yet gotten around to using and then cracked open the oven door to place it atop the growing stack on a plate inside. The rich smell made Arthur's stomach growl, and he was hard put to decide which was more appealing; that warm, yeasty, sweet-salt smell or the soft pink flush that cooking had raised in Eames' cheeks.

"I figured it was my turn to make sure we got fed," Eames offered, even though Arthur hadn't asked. "Well, it's far and beyond my turn. But this is a good start, yes?"

"Yes," Arthur replied, burying his nose in his coffee mug, trying to tear his eyes off of Eames' face... and then catching himself and trying not to stare at his ass instead. It was a very nice ass, but first thing in the morning really wasn't the best time for lascivious thoughts. Especially not when there was food on its way. Fresh waffles, no less. "Do you want me to slice up some of the strawberries Ariadne got us?" he offered.

Eames cast him a wide eyed look and Arthur was glad he hadn't been caught ogling. "That would be delightful," Eames replied, smiling even more brightly. "Thank you, Arthur."

So Arthur got the strawberries out of the refrigerator and grabbed the cutting board, sharing counter space with Eames as he finished pouring the last of the waffle batter on the iron. The kitchen was full of sunlight, the coffee was rich, and the silence that fell between them was comfortable and easy.

Breakfast turned out delicious, thanks to both their efforts... but mostly Eames'.

+++

"So what shall we do with the day?" Eames asked.

He was standing beside the door out onto the balcony, leaning against the frame, fingers tugging restlessly at curtains that were still drawn. This was as close to any window or exit as Arthur had seen him get since they had moved in here, but he didn't think that this was a good thing. There was too much tension in Eames' shoulders, in the way he was holding himself. It was all too obvious that he was _forcing_ himself to stand there.

Arthur felt the waffles that he had eaten sitting a little leaden in his stomach.

"What are you doing?" he asked, stepping over to stand beside Eames, close enough to feel his body heat, to absorb the anxiety radiating from him.

Eames shot Arthur a look from the corner of his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself. He'd removed the apron but was still wearing his flour-dusted clothing, and he needed to shave. So did Arthur, in fact; not to mention _he_ was still in his sweatpants, barefoot, with a button-up shirt he had pulled on before sitting down to breakfast but hadn't bothered to fasten.

There was something far more important than grooming for Arthur to focus on right now, however. There was _Eames_ to focus on.

"Isn't it about time we started behaving normally?" Eames asked, so quietly Arthur had to strain to hear even though he was standing right beside the man. "Isn't it time _I_ started behaving normally? You shouldn't... you shouldn't still be having to put up with my shit."

Arthur could feel his eyes rounding and he simply stared at Eames in shocked disbelief for a moment.

"I-- You-- Eames!" He was _sputtering_ , he realized after a moment. Arthur didn't _sputter_. But he was just so outraged by what Eames had said, by the completely fallacious mindset that had caused Eames to speak these words, that he couldn't form one coherent sentence.

"Don't get me wrong," Eames continued, determinedly staring away from Arthur, his face turned toward the balcony even though he couldn't see anything through the closed curtains. "I appreciate the tender loving care. I do. But I shouldn't have to... you shouldn't have to _coddle_ me like this."

Before he could stop himself, Arthur found that he had laid hands on Eames. He did not do so with violence, because even when he was seeing red with mingled rage and despair he knew better than that. But within a couple of seconds he had Eames back against the wall beside the balcony door, his own body pressed close, his forearms bracketing Eames' head. They were chest to chest, nose to nose, close enough that the one inch difference between their respective heights made no difference at all. Arthur was propped up enough that all of his weight was not on Eames, but he leaned close, forcing himself into Eames' personal space, making sure that Eames could not pretend he was not there.

"Don't you dare," he hissed, and it was fear and guilt that colored his voice, not anger. "Don't you _dare_ say things like that. Don't _think_ things like that."

Eames' eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, and he was standing stiff and completely still. Arthur regretted frightening him, knew that was absolutely the last thing he should have done, but he couldn't have reacted with any less intensity. Not with how strongly he felt.

"I am here by choice," he continued, and he tried to calm his voice, to control his breathing. "I'm not impatiently waiting for you to magically 'get better'. After what happened to you, I don't expect miracles."

He drew in a deep breath, trying to center himself, to choose the right words. He didn't dare to screw this up, but he had to make sure that Eames understood him.

"You can't.... You can't _will_ yourself better, Eames. I'm not saying you shouldn't try. I would never discourage you from that. But you have to be aware that it _won't work_. I'm confident that you'll heal, but it's not going to just happen one day because you think it's been long enough. It's going to take _time_. If it takes months, we'll be here for months. If it takes years, I'll be beside you for years. Unless, _unless_ you tell me to leave you." He frowned more deeply. "And then only if you mean it. _And_ if you mean it for the right reasons. And only if there's someone else I trust enough to take care of you. But..." he faltered, beginning to lose control of his voice, feeling overwhelmed by his own emotions, by the look in Eames' eyes, the expression of dawning comprehension on his face. "But I really hope that you won't tell me to leave you."

Arthur wondered if he'd ever spoken so many words to Eames at once, but this was too important not to properly articulate. He had more to communicate, in fact, as soon as he could figure out how to word it, but before he could do so, Eames let out a agonized little noise and surged forward, mashing their mouths together.

It was almost too painful at first to be termed a kiss, teeth cutting into lips and Arthur pressing into it just as vigorously as Eames after an initial instant of shock, but it served to share the intensity of emotions they were experiencing between them, and Arthur wouldn't have had it any other way.

He did lower his right hand, palming Eames jaw and doing his best to gentle the kiss without actually having to pull back, because no way was he doing that. Eames' hands were locked in the front of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling the material of the collar taut against the nape of his neck, and his mouth was desperate against Arthur's.

Arthur had had more sensual kisses. He'd had far more sexually arousing kisses. But he didn't think he'd ever had a kiss that both gave and demanded so much at the same time.

He did pull back, eventually, just far enough to breathe, "We're not done talking about this," against Eames' wet lips. Before Eames could reply, Arthur dove back in, reclaiming the man's mouth, hungrily thrusting his tongue between those crooked teeth, tracing their jagged lines, courting Eames' tongue into twining with his own. Both of his hands were now holding Eames' face, the man's stubble prickling his palms, his fingers crooking behind the hinge of his jaw, sliding up to rub at the thin, delicate flesh behind his ears.

Arthur wanted to bury his fingers in Eames' hair. He wanted to reach down and grab Eames' ass. He wanted to touch Eames everywhere at once, and he wanted to drag him into the bedroom, strip him naked, and take his time in doing this touching.

Instead, he gave Eames' tongue one last linger caress with his own, and then pulled away. Their lips slid together moistly before parting and it took everything Arthur had not to claim Eames' mouth all over again.

"I'm sorry," he said instead, as they both panted for breath. Eames tasted of fresh strawberries and black coffee, a hint of confectioners sugar that had been caught in the corner where his lips met, and Arthur wanted to kiss all of this away, until all that was left was the flavor of Eames himself, mingling with Arthur's, both of them in one another's mouths.

"What?" Eames' head thumped against the wall as he jerked back, trying to meet Arthur's eyes when they were still too close together for that to be feasible.

Arthur took half a step back, no more, and he didn't let go his hold of Eames' face. Now they could at least see each other. Arthur could see Eames' lips, plump and pressure-bruised, wet and ready for further plundering. Arthur drew in a deep breath, trying to regain control of himself, trying to order his thoughts. He _really_ couldn't afford to screw this up.

"I'm sorry for kissing you," he clarified, or at least he tried to clarify. Eames' eyes darkened and Arthur hastened to add, "I'm sorry because-- because I only did it because _I wanted to_. And that was very selfish of me."

"Arthur." Eames licked those amazing lips, and Arthur had to fight with himself, keep his hands bracketing cheekbones that had sharpened as Eames had lost weight, holding himself still by sheer force of will. "Arthur, don't be ridiculous. I kissed you first."

Arthur flushed. That was true. And yet. "I know. But you're.... I know you're doing better, Eames, but you're hardly in your right mind right now."

Eames' eyes narrowed, and Arthur shook his head. "It's not that I think you're less than capable and consenting," he assured Eames, and he meant it. "But you've been through a lot in the last couple of weeks. How can I know that this is what you really want? How can _you_ know that this is what you really want?"

"Arthur." Eames calmed, the anger that had been threatening to rise sliding away. His hands moved down Arthur's chest, coming to rest on his hips. There they stayed, heavy, warm, not caressing, just holding. "Arthur, I'm damaged but I'm not _broken_. If I didn't want to kiss you, I _wouldn't have kissed you_."

Arthur couldn't help the small bubble of laughter that burst out of him. Eames was right. It really was that simple, and that was such a relief.

Eames wasn't done talking yet, though.

"I just..." he seemed at a bit of a loss, casting his gaze down, hiding behind those long lashes. "I don't want your apology. Not unless you regret kissing me." Arthur made a noise of negation, but Eames continued before he could say anything. "But I also don't want you to kiss me if it's just pity... if it's out of some sort of sense of obligation."

"Eames," Arthur snapped, but not sharply, not unkindly. "Since when have you ever known me to do anything because I thought I _should_ , rather than because I _wanted_ to?"

Eames raised his eyes and stared at Arthur in surprise for a moment, his expression split open, his parted lips tempting Arthur nearly beyond what he could bear. But he had to be certain that they were both on the same page, that there would be no more misunderstandings.

"Well," Eames finally said, and his well-kissed, deliciously pink lips curved in a small smile. "I guess we have that in common, then."

Arthur smiled back, feeling a sense of tentative relief. "That answers your other question too," he offered. "I'm here because I want to be, Eames, not out of obligation or pity. I want to help you feel better, I want to help you get back to normal, but you do _not_ need to force it."

"And if I'm never back to normal?" Eames asked, his gaze dark and haunted.

Arthur stroked his cheeks softly, carefully, then hooked his hands behind Eames' neck, tugging him forward into a light, teasing kiss. "Then we will come up with a new kind of normal," he murmured against Eames' lush lips. "Okay?"

Eames didn't reply. But he did kiss Arthur back, and Arthur figured that was as good as agreement.

+++

They didn't have sex after that. Arthur hadn't expected that they would, and Eames didn't seem inclined to push for anything Arthur didn't initiate.

It wasn't that they were at an impasse. It was more that they were being mutually solicitous -- at least for the moment. Eames was obviously worn out from their emotional confrontation, Arthur was processing the things that had been said, and they were both full of a rich breakfast in need of digesting. A nice low-key activity was called for, and as Arthur had already noted, they could both use a shower and a shave.

Fortunately, they could get both those tasks out of the way at the same time, and together.

It sounded more suggestive than it actually was, due to the fact that they had taken to sharing the shower several days ago. Ever since Arthur had come out of the bathroom to find a gun pointed at his face, he'd resolved not to bathe alone, even if he thought Eames was asleep. And Eames... well, the first time he had tried showering alone, they'd had a repeat of the gun incident, only with less firearms and a lot more bare flesh. The water had started to run cold before Arthur had realized something was wrong and had gone into the bathroom to find Eames huddled in the shower stall, shivering and glassy-eyed.

Arthur hadn't asked what the bastards had done to Eames that he'd been rendered so fearful of enclosed spaces like the shower stall, and Eames yet to volunteer information about any of the torture he'd been subjected to.

So, after that, Arthur had just quietly dragged Eames into the bathroom and into the shower stall whenever they both needed to bathe. And Eames had been okay with this, as far as Arthur had been able to tell, so he hadn't felt too bad about making the decision for both of them.

Usually they showered quickly -- as much to prevent Arthur from having to spend too much time pressed up against Eames' naked body as because Eames was edgy even when Arthur was there beside him -- but today something felt different, even before Arthur turned the water on.

"Thank you for making breakfast," he said to Eames as he fetched them both a fresh change of clothes, setting them on the sink beside the towels. He couldn't remember if he'd already said that and he didn't want to take the chance that he hadn't. "It was really good."

"Unexpectedly so?" Eames asked, his voice a soft, teasing purr. He seemed to be in good humor after their recent conversation, and he was leaning into Arthur's personal space without hesitation. Of course, Arthur had made it very clear that Eames was welcome there; during the last seven days, _and_ within the last hour.

Something about passionately kissing someone tended to indicate a certain amount of familiarity, not to mention a tolerance for their company.

Arthur couldn't help running his gaze over Eames. The man had taken off his teeshirt and his slacks were unzipped, hanging low on his hips, baring almost his entire torso. The fact that he was obviously not wearing underwear meant that Arthur could follow the dusting of curly brown hairs that ran down from below Eames' bellybutton and widened as they vanished into the valley of his fly. With his eyes only, of course, though he ached to trace this path with his fingers as well.

He raised his gaze before it could get too intrusive, and had to admit that the rest of Eames was just as tempting. His broad shoulders that tapered down to a waist more narrow than it had used to be, a testament to the fact that he was still recovering. Speaking of which, his bruises were fading, and he'd told Arthur just yesterday that his ribs felt fine. Arthur wanted desperately to trace the dark ink of Eames' tattoos, to thumb a pointed nipple, to slide his hand over the bone of Eames' hip, feeling his skin smooth and warm beneath the loose material of his slacks... but he restrained himself.

Instead, he raised his eyes to Eames' face, focusing his attention where it should have been all along. And that wasn't any less distracting. Arthur had always known that Eames was good looking, even when he hadn't thought he was affected by this fact. But now that his perception was no longer colored by the layer of irritation and antipathy that he had always felt toward the man before, he found he was able to appreciate the sharp lines and clean curves of Eames' features in a way he never would have expected before.

It wasn't just those incredible lips, although Eames' mouth seemed designed to catch the eye and inspire carnal fantasies at even the most innocuous of times.... Or maybe that was just Arthur's reaction. But Eames also had well-defined cheekbones and a strong jaw, which were more finely demarked now that he had lost so much weight. His brows arched, more symmetrical than most people's, and even when he had been at his most angry with Eames, back before the Fischer job, Arthur had always been able to see the intelligence in those bright grey eyes.

"Actually, I already knew you could cook," he informed Eames, smiling fondly. Their faces were close enough that he'd only have had to lean forward a little in order to claim that lush mouth again, but he didn't do it. Nor did he lay his hands on that sculpted torso, though he did trail the side of his thumb along the bristles on Eames' jawline. "I'm a point man, remember?"

"The best there is," Eames agreed, and he leaned forward to kiss Arthur, but it was only a light brush of his lips, a teasing instant of contact, then it was over.

"You okay with shaving in the shower?" Arthur asked, knowing that he was faintly flushed and telling himself it was because of the kiss, not the compliment. The fact that he was blushing at all was patently ridiculous, when he had been the one sticking his tongue in Eames' mouth less than half an hour ago.

Eames tilted his head. "Don't see why not. As long as you're up to it."

Arthur averted his eyes as Eames skinned out of his slacks, turning and tugging off his own sweatpants, telling himself that he'd seen it all before. Many times, in fact.

But he and Eames hadn't just been trading hot kisses minutes before, all those previous time. They hadn't had what amounted to a frank, if somewhat sidewinding discussion of their feelings before getting undressed, those previous times.

Right now they were both more naked and vulnerable with one another than mere nudity could render them, and Arthur couldn't ignore that fact.

He could, however, sublimate it in favor of getting them both bathed and shaved. And so Arthur turned on the water, making sure that it was at a temperature that would be comfortable for both of them, then grabbed the shaving cream and razor.

Eames still looked a little nervous as he preceded Arthur into the shower, but he didn't hesitate. The stall wasn't really big enough for two full sized men, but Arthur was lean and neither of them was squeamish about sharing space. Well, if they had been, clearly, they wouldn't have been in here together in the first place.

The tiles were still cool even though the water was warm, so they stood away from the walls, nearly chest to chest as Arthur smoothed the shaving cream on Eames' jaw, taking far more care with the razor than he'd employed since he'd first started shaving himself, when he'd been a teen. Even with the safety razor, even with Arthur being extra cautious, Eames still tensed every time Arthur got to his neck, his breath coming hard and fast as he tried to hold himself as still as was humanly possible.

Arthur tried not to think about what this signified, but he could guess that Eames must have had this throat sliced at least once in the dreamshare. And he could barely keep his own hands steady when this thought was foremost in his mind; only managing it because he _had_ to, for Eames' sake.

"Rinse," he said once he was finished, tracing the fingers of his free hand over the smooth line of Eames' jaw, down to the tip of his chin.

"Thank you," Eames said, his gaze strangely intent in the moment before he turned to do as instructed. Arthur was going to have to wait until they finished bathing in order to deal with his own morning stubble; he'd forgotten to pack his shower mirror, and he wasn't comfortable shaving blind. Instead, he set aside the razor and grabbed the shampoo.

Eames picked up the soap, working up a thick lather as Arthur tilted his head back to get the shampoo out. Arthur probably should have been surprised when Eames' hands came to rest on his chest, but he wasn't. Before, they had only shared the shower in a technical sense, each of them washing himself. But _now_ was different than _before_. And Arthur wasn't embarrassed to admit that he had a hyper awareness of where Eames was and what he was doing -- not that difficult when the man was only a couple of inches away from him.

"Is this okay?" Eames asked over the sound of water hitting tile and skin, his hands still where they were pressed to Arthur's torso, as Arthur raised his head, blinking starred lashes.

Arthur considered several replies, none of which were "no", before settling on a small smile and a nod.

Normally Eames soaped himself as quickly as possible, getting his armpits and groin, just the essentials, in a hurry to get done and get out of the confining stall.

But evidently things were different when it was Arthur he had his hands on, when it was Arthur's body he was soaping up. He ran his bubble-slick hands up to Arthur's collarbones, over the peaks of his shoulders, then down Arthur's arms to ring his wrists in a loose grip.

These touches weren't firm enough to be sexual, but they couldn't be anything other than sensual. Arthur's brain and body were giving his dick mixed signals, he was aware, but either way it felt incredibly good.

Eames was staring at Arthur with a strange fixed expression on his face, his eyes dark and yet bright at the same time. Arthur didn't know if it was the right response, but he smiled at the man, knowing it was revealingly gentle.

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" Eames whispered, so quietly that if Arthur hadn't been a fair hand at lip reading he might not have understood him.

"Not that I can recall," Arthur replied softly, treating the question seriously because how could he not? They'd already crossed so many lines that Arthur wasn't even sure there was anything he wouldn't say to Eames right now. Speaking of which.... "You know that I could say the same thing to you, though, right?"

Eames hummed in response, and leaned forward. Arthur half expected a kiss, but instead Eames merely slotted their cheeks together, wet flesh over sharp bones, their chests pressed close enough that Arthur could have synched their breathing if he had wanted.

Realizing that Eames had let go of his wrists in order to wrap his arms around his waist, Arthur put his own arms around Eames in return, tracing his fingertips over tattoos that he couldn't see on the man's upper back and shoulders.

"Is this okay?" he asked, turning his head and nuzzling Eames' ear, which was all he could reach right now.

"Is it?"

He hadn't been expecting a return question in response, and he pulled back, trying to meet Eames' eyes, though he didn't loosen his light embrace. "What?"

"Well." Eames had his gaze cast down, staring at... Arthur's nipples? Or maybe he was just avoiding Arthur's eyes. It was telling that the second possibility was far less desirable.

"Well?" Arthur prompted, feeling bad for simply parroting Eames' words back to him, but Eames was the one who was speaking in incomplete sentences.

"I want...." Eames licked his lips, those amazing lips, but continued to keep his lashes lowered. "I _do_ want, but... but I'm not sure if...."

"If?" Evidently Arthur wasn't through echoing Eames' words back at him, but he really had no idea where the man was coming from and where his half of the conversation was going.

Eames licked his lips again and glanced up at Arthur, before closing his eyes and appearing to steel himself. "I'm not sure I'm... capable... right now."

Arthur could feel his brows arch up toward his hairline. _Oh,_ he thought, but didn't say. So that was what the problem was.

"Eames." He waited until Eames raised his head, until he was willing to meet Arthur's eyes. There was something dark and troubled in Eames' gaze, but his face betrayed more hope than he probably meant to express.

"Eames," Arthur continued, now that he was sure he had the man's uninterrupted attention, "Not every sexual touch has to culminate in orgasm."

He wished he'd had a camera, to capture the look on Eames' face. He hadn't known the man could open his eyes that wide, for one thing. And when Eames mouth fell open like that... well, it could only provoke a boatload of filthy thoughts.

And Arthur was pretty sure he _was not_ the only person who would think so.

Eames stood there, stunned, and Arthur took advantage of the moment to plant a quick kiss at one corner of those luscious lips.

"Now...." Eames blinked rapidly, sounded a little breathless, but his arms, if anything, tightened around Arthur's waist, "Now there's a unique sentiment."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh a little, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"Seriously, though," Eames continued, as though Arthur hadn't been serious, his forehead creased beneath the wet fall of his bangs. "The last thing I'd want to be is a dreadful cocktease, however inadvertently."

"You're thinking about it too hard," Arthur said, shaking his head. He kept his body still, however, because he was all too aware that he was naked and wet and plastered up against the other man, who was also naked, also wet, as well as being solid and warm and incredibly sexy. Now that he knew what was worrying Eames, he had no intention of putting any pressure on him, however incidentally.

Eames opened his mouth, but Arthur placed a long finger across his lips, shushing him.

"Just wash your hair," he ordered, taking a step back. His libido protested, but Arthur knew that it was the right move to make. Eames looked distressed, bereft, but also relieved. Grabbing the shampoo bottle, Arthur held it up between them.

With an overly dramatic sigh Eames accepted it, but he gave Arthur a boyish, almost shy smile, ducking his head. Arthur rolled his eyes as he reached for the soap, but he had to admit he was charmed in spite of himself.

He wouldn't be telling Eames that, of course.

Working the soap into suds the same way Eames had done, Arthur took his turn washing the other man. Because turn-about was fair play and all.

Besides, any reason to get his hands on Eames' body was a good reason, especially when they were both naked.

+++

"Still, you know," Eames said, stepping into his fresh slacks, picking up the conversational thread as though there hadn't been a ten minute delay while they finished bathing, "It's really rather nice when it does."

"Sexual contact? Culminate in orgasm?" Arthur hazarded, as thought there could possibly be anything else stuck in Eames' head right now. Arthur was already in his own clothes, was towel drying his hair, and he completely missed whatever Eames said next.

He emerged to find the man staring at him expectantly.

"Can I ask you repeat that?" he asked, dropping the towel and finger combing his hair, trying to get the worst of the tangles.

Eames flushed. Actually pinked a little past the warmth the shower had brought to his cheeks, and once again Arthur wished for a camera. Not that he'd ever have wanted anyone else to see what he was seeing in this moment. This Eames was all for him, _only_ for him.

"I just suggested that... it would be nice if... if it could culminate in... if, you know, it _did_."

Arthur took two steps forward, standing chest to chest with Eames. He was wearing a flannel button-up and his hair was a wild mess around his collar and ears. Eames was still bare from the waist up and his bangs were dripping in his eyes, which might have been what was causing him to blink rapidly. Or maybe not.

Arthur leaned even closer, until their lips brushed together, just for one moment.

"Whenever you are up for it," he breathed against Eames' mouth, feeling his dick growing heavy and hard in his pants, reacting to the heat in Eames' hooded eyes, "You just let me know, Mr. Eames."

Eames caught his breath, bit his lower lip, and flushed more darkly.

"You know," he whispered, their mouths still close enough to kiss, his eyes sliding closed, "It really shouldn't be so sexy when you call me that."

+++

They still didn't have sex after that. Not that afternoon.

Eames convinced Arthur to forgo shaving. "Just for a day or two, please?" Arthur failed to convince Eames to put on a shirt, not that he minded very much. Then they curled up on the bed and Arthur got Eames to tell him the story behind each of his tattoos -- even the ones that had no story. After that Eames got Arthur to tell the story behind his one tattoo. And after _that_ they both lay there, side by side, Eames' arm slung over Arthur's waist, Arthur's fingers carding through the crisp hairs lightly dusting Eames' pectorals, while they exchanged lazy kisses.

That was the point at which Cobb called, which kind of killed the mood.

Besides, Arthur needed to quiz Cobb on why exactly he had invited Ariadne to visit him.

The fact that he was resting his head in Eames' lap while he did so, Eames' fingers back to being nimble and sure as they played through his product-free hair... well, there was no way for Cobb to know and no reason he should. It was nice to see Eames so relaxed and at ease, and Arthur himself felt more comfortable than he had in... well, longer than he could remember. Maybe since the last time he had been curled up on the Cobb sofa with baby James, before Mal had killed herself, before Cobb had gone on the run.... But even that was questionable. Because back then Arthur hadn't even known Eames and had been a good four years away from actually getting along with him.

Now he had a hard time imagining that he could be this happy in any situation that did not involve Eames. If anyone had told Arthur the first time they had met that he would one day be in a comfortable domestic set-up like this with Eames and be _enjoying_ it so damned much, he'd probably have shot them in the face.

Which was a little less violent than it sounded, considering that the first time he had met Eames, they had been under, in the dreamshare. But still.

"What's the verdict?" Eames asked in his distinctively raspy drawl when Arthur finally hung up with a small huff of exasperation.

"Oh, you know Cobb," Arthur grumbled, sitting up and placing his phone on the bedside table. "It's impossible to pin him down when he doesn't want to tell you something. He made noises about teaching Ariadne some architectural techniques, but he didn't specify whether he meant in reality or in the dreamshare. And he wouldn't tell me if the invitation meant anything more than that."

"Maybe he's just lonely," Eames offered, rubbing his chin, his expression thoughtful. "Ariadne's a sweet girl, after all. I know that I found myself missing her several times after the Fischer job, and I didn't spend as much time with her as Cobb did. Or even as much time with her as you did."

"I was training her in world building," Arthur said, trying not to sound defensive. "Cobb wanted me to teach her." He had no idea whether Eames was feeling jealous, but he thought that maybe _he_ was. Even though he knew good and goddamned well that there was nothing more than friendship, respect, and mutual affection between Eames and Ariadne.

"And you needed to make sure she learnt it _right_ , yeah?" Eames asked, quirking a brow. "Come here, Arthur."

"Why?" he asked, and he didn't really mean to sound so suspicious.

Eames smirked, his lush mouth curving, tempting. "Because I want to kiss you."

"Oh." Arthur licked his lips, watched Eames do the same. "All right, then."

+++

They made and ate lunch. They sat on the sofa. Eames admitted that he was getting a bit tired of the bed.

"But I'm not yet fit for public consumption, and it really is the most comfortable piece of furniture in the house."

He kept his tone light, and the words were meant half jokingly, but Arthur could sense the despair and self loathing behind them, could see the shadows in Eames' eyes.

"Don't rush things," he replied, speaking as seriously as he meant the directive. "Eames, I don't want to keep harping on what was done to you, I want to help you forget it, but... well, honestly you _can't_ forget it. All you can do is move past it. And that's going to take time."

Eames grimaced but he didn't argue.

"I don't mind the bed so much when you're in it with me," he admitted, with a sheepish smile.

Arthur was stupidly grateful that Eames hadn't been subjected to braces when he'd been a child. He couldn't help this random thought; the crooked teeth just added to the man's charm.

"That goes both ways, you know," he said, after a pause to consider his response.

They stayed on the sofa, but after a few minutes Eames crawled into Arthur's lap, even though he outweighed him by more than a little despite the pounds he'd yet to put back on after his ordeal.

And Arthur didn't mind at all, honestly.

+++

"Arthur."

Arthur was busy preparing dinner, but he turned immediately at the plaintive sound of Eames' voice. "Yeah?"

Eames was sitting at the table in the little dining nook. He'd offered to help with dinner, but since Arthur was only reheating three different dishes they'd had in the last two days, his aid hadn't been needed.

Arthur was a bit concerned by the hangdog expression he found on Eames' face. It wasn't a play for attention, he decided quickly. Something was bothering Eames, and he was genuinely distressed.

"What is it?" he asked, leaving the stove and crossing to sit in the chair beside Eames. The sauce in the pan would keep, the pasta was already done, the casserole in the oven had five more minutes at least, and Eames needed him.

"Would you say I was a good forger?"

Arthur blinked. "Yes," he replied without hesitation. It was true. There actually weren't _many_ forgers; it took a certain mindset, a lot of talent, and even more imagination in order to be able to convincingly look like someone else in the dreamshare. In fact, "You're the best I've ever worked with," he offered. "Possibly the best forger there is."

Eames nodded, and then cast down his eyes. He looked sad, bordering on devastated, and Arthur frowned, wondering at the cause. He reached forward and clasped Eames' hands in his, disturbed to note that they were trembling again. Eames had been doing better all day; it was almost physically painful to see him backslide like this, like taking a kick to the chest. Not that it was completely unexpected, unfortunately.

"What is it?" he asked again, when Eames was silent.

"I.... I can't...."

"Oh." Arthur's eyes widened as it came to him. "Oh. Eames. I'm sorry."

"I can't. Can't go under again," Eames said, his voice small and shaky. Now Arthur understood why Eames had sounded so heartbroken. "I don't dare. And so I can't...."

"Can't forge anymore," Arthur finished for him, his voice hushed but the words stark and the reality of them harsh. He could understand, now that he thought about it. Could completely understand why Eames would be unwilling to use a PASIV device after what had happened to him. "Eames...."

Eames bowed over, pressing his forehead to their clasped hands, his eyes squeezed tightly closed.

"What... what do I do now?" he asked, sounding as though he was choking on the words. He didn't sound as though he was crying, but he sounded as though he might. He sounded like a man in pain.

Arthur clasped Eames' hands hard enough to hurt as he gave it some thought. This was a valid question. Eames had made a name for himself in the dreamshare, was one of the best. He'd been a grifter and sometime thief before he'd ever set metaphysical foot in a lucid dream, but real crimes had real consequences, and Arthur didn't like to think of Eames diving back into that life. Especially since there was no way to know how long it was going to be before Eames had recovered enough to even do so without being a danger to himself.

"Right now you focus on getting better," Arthur said. Because this was the truth. "Can you do that for me?"

After a silence that lasted so long Arthur didn't think that he would get a response, so long that he was beginning to worry about the sauce scorching, Eames nodded. His forehead was a bit damp where it pressed against Arthur's hands, and his shoulders were shaking slightly, but he was nodding.

"All right," he whispered.

"And after that," Arthur continued, his brain working quickly, "Maybe you can work with me. Not go into any dreams, but help me collect information and figure out what to do with it."

Eames raised his head, peering at Arthur with confused eyes. They had a wet sheen, but he'd yet to shed a tear.

"You came up with a majority of the ideas for inception," Arthur said, and he meant every word. "I might be wrong, but I don't think that we could have made it work without you. I'd like to have that intelligence, imagination, and expertise backing me on a daily basis, on every job that I take in the future."

Eames eyes had been getting progressively wider, and his jaw dropping lower with each sentence that Arthur spoke.

"Arthur?" he squeaked. In another lifetime, a couple of weeks ago, Arthur might have found it amusing. As it was now, he found it kind of... adorable. He understood, and he sympathized, but he did not regret saying it, putting his feelings into words. Normally it would have embarrassed him, made him feel too open, too vulnerable. But now it was Eames who was vulnerable, and Arthur knew that the man wouldn't play smug or turn his compliments back in his face as he so often had done in the past. And this gave Arthur a great feeling of freedom in speaking them.

Eames was still staring at him in disbelief. Arthur smiled, patting Eames' cheek gently, willing to admit to himself that his fingers lingered for a moment. "I have to get the sauce." He could hear it bubbling away on the stove, and he probably had less than thirty seconds in which to save it.

He got there in time, pulling it off the heat and giving it a good stir with a wooden spoon. Setting it aside, he grabbed the hot pads and pulled the casserole, which Ariadne had cooked for them using a recipe she'd gotten from her mother, out of the oven.

"Food's ready," he announced, but before he could turn, two muscle-corded arms slid around his waist, and he could feel Eames strong and solid against his back, standing close, warm and breathing.

"Arthur," Eames murmured, his voice low and husky. He pressed his lips against Arthur's shoulder through the material of his shirt, and when Arthur leaned back into him, he tightened his arms and hooked his chin over Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur would never admit to it aloud, not even now, when he was safe to say other things, to make other observations about Eames and his admiration for the man, but he had always liked the way Eames said his name. And it was even better when he spoke it in a low rumbling drawl that was heavily reminiscent if the bedroom, of sleepiness, of sexual arousal.

He smirked. Now was not the time for that, though. No matter how tempting it was with Eames all wrapped around him and that purr in his ear. The leftovers were reheated and they had to eat them while they were still warm.

Later, however.... Well, they would see what happened later. He highly doubted that Eames was going to get _less_ sexy.

"Hungry?" Arthur asked, turning his head, Eames nose sharp and cool against his oven-heated cheek.

"Mm." Eames stretched to kiss what he could reach. "Ravenous."


	6. Makes the Angels Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur came explosively awake in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in the bridge of his nose and red stars bursting at the back of his eyes.

Arthur came explosively awake in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in the bridge of his nose and red stars bursting at the back of his eyes.

"Shit!" He was rolling before he fully awakened, off the bed and into a defensive crouch in an instant, reaching for the gun he no longer kept at his bedside. It took him half a second to realize he was awake, then another half a second to realize that what had awakened him had been an elbow to the face.

This knowledge was what propelled him upright and back up onto the bed. Because every instinct that he had, all the training he had undergone, everything in the room around him was letting him know that he was _not_ under attack, that they were still secure in the apartment... and _this_ meant that there was only one person who could have just struck him in the face.

And just as surely as he knew that it had been Eames, he knew that it had not been done deliberately. Which meant that Eames _needed_ him.

"Eames." Not bothering with the lamp, Arthur leaned over the other man and shook his shoulder a little roughly. "Eames, wake up!"

Because Eames was still asleep. And judging from the lines in his brow, the tension in his jaw, the way he whimpered and shifted his head restlessly on the pillow, he was... having a nightmare?

Arthur boggled over this even as he continued his attempt at waking Eames. Those who used Somnacin regularly always lost their ability to dream naturally, and as Arthur was painfully aware, Eames had been hooked up to a PASIV device as recently as a week ago. He _shouldn't_ be dreaming. It shouldn't be possible. Although, since he so very clearly was, it was no wonder to Arthur that it was a nightmare. From the way Eames' face was crunched up in distress so extreme it was nearly pain, and from the dull throb in the bridge of Arthur's nose -- bruised but not broken -- it couldn't be anything else.

"Eames," Arthur insisted, risking being hit again as he leaned over the other man and shook his shoulder harder. In fact, one of Eames' arms struck his chest as he flailed, but it was a glancing blow and then Eames started awake with a sudden intake of breath, sitting up so quickly that he almost slammed their foreheads together. Only Arthur's quick reflexes allowed him to duck to the side fast enough to avoid an accidental headbutt.

"Whu--?" Eames froze, quivering, and taking a chance, Arthur reached for him and grasped his upper arms. He wanted to pull Eames into a close embrace, but first he needed to make sure that he knew he was awake, make sure that he was all right.

Relatively speaking, that was.

"Eames, are you awake?" he asked, only catching his mistake once the words had left his mouth. He could have kicked himself for the panicked expression they brought to Eames' face.

"You're awake now," he hastened to correct, tried to assure Eames, shifting his hands up to cup his face. Eames' cheeks were chill and clammy under his hands. "You _are_ awake, but you were dreaming."

Eames sucked in a shallow, quivering breath, then another, and his eyelids were heavy but he was focused on Arthur's face. Arthur wished he'd taken the time to turn on the lamp, but it was too late now, and he wasn't going to let go of Eames for as long as it took to do so. There was a small amount of light coming in through the window, even with the curtains closed, and they could each see the other well enough to make out essentials of expression.

"You _are_ awake," Arthur repeated, sweeping the pads of his thumbs over the corners of Eames' eyes, pretending he didn't feel the heated prickle of tears there. "You are, I swear to you. Okay?"

After a couple more bracing breaths, Eames nodded faintly. "Okay."

Arthur scooted closer, brushing back the hair plastered to Eames' brow with perspiration. "Okay."

Eames stared at him through the darkness for a long moment, his broad, bare chest heaving, and then he leaned forward and clumsily pushed his mouth up against Arthur's.

Arthur shifted his hand on Eames' jaw and tilted his head in order to gentle the kiss, though he didn't pull away. Eames' tongue licked hot at the seam of his lips for a moment, but then he was pulling back.

"Better?" Arthur whispered.

Eames swallowed tightly and nodded. "Yeah." Arthur waited patiently, running his fingers through Eames' hair with one hand, the other sliding down Eames' neck, feeling his pulse pouncing against the thin skin of his neck, before coming to rest on his shoulder. "If... if you..." Eames faltered but collected himself. "I know that if I were still dreaming, you wouldn't have let me kiss you."

This surprised a small laugh out of Arthur. "Beats a totem, I guess," he said, knowing that now might not be the time for levity, but unable to help himself.

"As long as you're here."

"Hey." Arthur gave Eames a small shake. "I'm not going anywhere. Haven't we already covered that?"

Eames frowned, his lower lip plumping temptingly, and Arthur unabashedly gave in to this temptation, leaning forward and claiming Eames' mouth. It was soft and giving beneath his, then Eames was kissing back, more than holding his own.

They tumbled down onto the mattress together, neither one being the only one to move, and lay as they had before falling asleep, side by side, still trading kisses that were becoming progressively more sleepy as Eames calmed from his nightmare.

"Do you remember what you dreamt?" Arthur whispered against Eames' mouth. He knew it might not be the best idea, but his curiosity got the best of him. He was still shocked that Eames had been dreaming at all. And he thought that maybe, _maybe_ it would be better for Eames to get it out, to talk about it.

Eames stiffened, and Arthur was afraid he'd completely screwed everything up, but then he huffed, his breath breaking over Arthur's chin, and slumped into Arthur, their foreheads bumping together lightly.

"Sorry," Arthur offered quietly.

"No, it's...." Eames shook his head. "It's okay if you ask.... I just, um," he licked his lips, "Hope you don't mind if I don't answer."

"It's all right," Arthur answered quickly, honestly. Part of him was still wildly curious, but the larger part was aware that he probably didn't want to hear. Because whatever it had been, it had definitely _not_ been a pleasant dream.

And more importantly, if Eames wasn't wiling to tell him, it really wasn't any of his business.

Eames tilted his head up, claiming another quick kiss, his tongue licking over Arthur's lower lip. Arthur slanted their mouths together and tangled his tongue with Eames. Eames tasted like sleep and fear, but mostly he tasted of mint toothpaste and _Eames_. It was a flavor Arthur had never imagined he'd grow so familiar with, and yet now he had no intention of being deprived of it, of not being able to indulge himself whenever he had a chance.

Before the kiss could get too heated, though, Eames pulled away, squirming down to lay his head on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur felt a pang of regret, but he was just glad that Eames was willing to seek comfort in Arthur's arms.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked, deciding that it was safe enough to reach for the lamp. He stretched, switching it on without letting go of Eames, its golden glow filling the bedroom and banishing shadows to corners and the undersides of furniture. Arthur sighed, running his fingers through Eames' hair. He focused on the soft gust of the man's breath against his neck, above his collar, and ignored the slight ache throbbing in the bridge of his nose. He hoped he wouldn't bruise, but he didn't really care that much. He'd taken worse damage for men he felt less affection for in the past, after all.

"Yes," Eames answered, and since Arthur could tell that it was a lie, he continued, "No. But I will. Soon."

Arthur tugged at Eames' hair, very lightly, and then stroked his head, smoothing down the sleep-spiked strands. He might tell Eames, someday, how much he liked the fly-away hair, how appealing he found it. But right now he was content to simply--

"You're petting me as though I were your prize terrier," Eames said, lifting his chin so that he was speaking the words into the sensitive line of Arthur's neck.

"Do you mind?" Arthur asked, pausing but not withdrawing his hand, threading his fingers through Eames' hair and finding the tender patch of thin skin right behind the man's ear with the edge of his thumb. Rubbing it carefully.

"Mm." Eames shivered slightly and curled closer to Arthur. "I can think of better things you could be stroking."

Arthur arched his brows. "Really?" Not that he minded this double entendre in the slightest; he just wondered whether Eames was ready to back it up. They'd had this discussion earlier in the day, after all, and Arthur was pretty sure they'd reached an answer in the negative.

On the other hand, who was he to complain if Eames had changed his mind? It wasn't as though the man had been unwilling; he had only been uncertain of his own ability to perform. If he now felt ready to follow through, then Arthur should be glad for him, right? Actually, he would feel glad for _both_ of them.

Instead of replying to the one word question, Eames levered up, his lips soft and plush where they pressed against the point of Arthur's chin. Arthur tipped his head back slightly -- not to get away -- and grasped the nape of Eames' neck more firmly, short hairs prickling his fingers.

"You should go without shaving more often," Eames rumbled against the delicate hollow underneath Arthur's jaw, sending shivers of both sexual stimulation and ticklishness over the surface of his skin.

"I like _you_ better clean-shaven," Arthur returned, unable to control a full body shudder as Eames' tongue traced the line his lips had taken, hot and wet and clever.

"Now, now," Eames murmured, and Arthur had always known that his raspy voice would be even more seductive when he was aroused, but the reality was far and beyond anything that his imagination could have conjured up. "A little beard burn can be sexy."

"Mm." Arthur smirked. "It's good that you think so, since you asked me not to shave today."

"Darling," Eames shifted until he was propped up on one elbow, leaning slightly toward Arthur. He trailed his fingertips down the sharp line of Arthur's jaw. "I hate to break it to you, but it's going to take you more than one day to grow a proper beard."

Arthur laughed, grabbing Eames' hand and tugging it so that he could kiss his the pads of his fingers. They were rough and dry, but Arthur didn't think he was imagining that they'd gotten softer in the past week, while they'd both been taking things easy here in the apartment. They were the hands of a thief, nimble and sure, the palm and fingers more broad than Arthur's, but still well-formed and graceful for all that.

Eames' eyes grew softer and darker at the same time. He traced the curve of Arthur's lower lip lightly and then the upper lip, even more lightly. "Lovely," he breathed.

Arthur felt his eyebrows rise again. "My mouth is nothing special," he protested quietly, and before he could stop himself his tongue flickered out to taste the faint tang of salt on Eames' skin, teasing his fingertips and watching Eames' pupils dilate. "Not like yours." He shifted his gaze to the mouth in question, examining it hungrily, not bothering to hide his naked lust.

"Mine?" Eames' fat, pink lips curved in a small but real smile. "Arthur, I've a mouth made for cocksucking. Your lips are like art; a beautiful cupid's bow. Perfect for kissing." His thumb tracked over the line of Arthur's lower lip, tugging at the curve with gentle attention.

"Well, I don't know; I'm pretty good at sucking cock myself," Arthur found himself saying with a wicked grin. "Or so I've been reliably informed."

Eames stared, his gaze blank for a moment, before he collapsed down onto Arthur and proved -- not that proof was needed as far as Arthur was concerned -- that his lips worked just fine for kissing, despite his offhand promises of more intimate oral contact.

Not that Arthur wasn't looking forward to finding out whether Eames was as good at the _other_ sort of kissing... but he wasn't in a huge hurry. Not when Eames' tongue was in his mouth, twisting so deliberately and delightfully around his own.

While he was more than glad to find that Eames was a willing participant, had in fact actually initiated this latest kiss, Arthur wasn't about to just lay here as and passively let himself be plundered. He slid his arms up and around Eames' neck and shoulders, tugging and twisting until they were both lying on their sides, without breaking their kiss for more than one or two breathless gasps between them.

Eames didn't seem to mind being forcibly manipulated this way, curling closer to Arthur even as he tilted his head to slot their mouths more neatly together. Arthur approved of this and showed his appreciation by running his tongue along the inner line of Eames' lower lip, silken smooth flesh contrasting with the ragged row of hard teeth in a manner that titillated his sense. Exploring those teeth while they were locked together in a deep kiss was just as exciting as Arthur had always expected. Possibly more so, and he unhesitatingly indulged himself.

Eames let out a little sound against Arthur's mouth that he had trouble interpreting. What he had less difficulty with was the hand tugging determinedly at the hem of the teeshirt he had worn to bed, baring a strip of his back to the cool night air, which in turn raised gooseflesh on his arms, even though Eames was a veritable furnace in front of him, pressed close against his chest.

"Wait," he gasped, dragging his lips away from Eames with real reluctance.

"Sorry?" Eames croaked, uncertain but not sounding as though he really _meant_ the apology, even though he'd been willing to voice it.

Arthur quirked a crooked grin at him, feeling his lips tingling and plumped, as he sat up and stripped off his shirt. "Under the covers," he directed.

"But, Arthur." Eames sat up beside him, pouting and looking _ridiculously_ cute, with his mussed hair and boyish expression, despite the obvious fact that he'd just been thoroughly despoiled, his jutting lips as fat and red as Arthur's felt. "Then I won't be able to _see_ you."

Arthur actually _blushed_ as he took note of the way Eames' gaze dragged over him, from his eyes to his mouth, then down his torso from nipples to navel. There was no mistaking the hunger in that look, the honest admiration, and Arthur stopped worrying about whether Eames was going to call things off halfway through. That was not the look of a man who was going to stop before he'd brought their sexual contact to the orgasmic conclusion under discussion earlier.

And he had to admit he had his own qualms about getting under the bedcovers now that there was a little space between them and he could take in Eames' well-muscled arms and powerful chest, now that he was free to look with nothing but carnal thoughts foremost in his mind. Because it would be a real shame not to be able to run his eyes over every inch that his fingers intended to touch.

On the other hand, now that he had taken off his shirt....

"Not all of us are furnaces," he said, reaching forward and spreading his hand over the swells of Eames' pectorals, feeling the supple skin, the wiry hairs, and most of all, the _heat_ radiating off of him.

"I could offer to keep you warm." Eames returned Arthur's naughty smirk to him, with interest, and incredibly kissable lips. And, oh God, that _voice_.

"Oh, trust me, you will be," Arthur informed him archly, shedding himself of his pyjama bottoms and then squirming naked between the sheets.

"Un-unfair!" Eames choked out, eyes wide. "Arthur, I wanted a peek!"

"Then join me," Arthur instructed, burrowing more deeply into the covers. He really was chilled now that he was bare, and as much as he wanted to indulge Eames, there were just some lengths he wasn't going to go to.

"Ah, Arthur." Eames quickly shucked his own pants, then wriggling eagerly between the sheets, moving into the ready arms Arthur opened for him, their bare chests pressing together, "If you only knew how many times I've wondered what you were keeping inside those deliciously fitted slacks, imagined, dreamed...."

"And yet you say that you know you're awake because I'm willing to take you to bed?" Arthur asked archly. He hadn't meant to tease, he didn't doubt Eames, and he wasn't put out, but he _was_ driven to seek a certain measure of specificity.

"Oh, I didn't mean 'dreamed' literally," Eames said with a brisk shake of his head, his warm palms crawling over Arthur's waist, caressing down to his jutting hip bones, then sliding restlessly around, his fingertips toying with the upper swells of his ass cheeks. "I may not be the most moral of individuals but I wouldn't be so gauche as to create a projection of you in the dreamshare. And you know that those of us who go under regularly stop having natural dreams."

"So you've only _imagined_ my dick then," Arthur breathed against Eames' mouth, his eyes heavy lidded. He slid his arms around Eames' shoulders again, pressing close but still holding himself a bit away from the chest down. He didn't want to rush things, didn't want to lose his train of thought or the ability to converse... yet.

Eames loosed a small needy sound, licked his lips, his own eyes glazed with obvious sexual arousal. His fingers flexed where they clung, moved lower, closer, but not quite there. "Ah, no," he husked, and then he nipped at Arthur's chin. It shouldn't have been as sexy as it was. "Not just your... _dick_...." He breathed heavily against Arthur's mouth, close but not quite kissing. "I've also spent a fair amount of time thinking about your tight," his hands inched lower, "Little," lower still, "Ass." And then he grabbed, large capable hands closing over the ass in question, right where Arthur wanted them.

"Mm." Arthur gave in to instinct and arched, his arms locking more tightly around Eames' neck, as he took the man's mouth, hungry, demanding.

Eames didn't seem to mind, not if Arthur went by the moan he loosed into Arthur's kiss, the fingers digging into the tight muscles of his rear.

Arthur wanted to get his hands on Eames' own fine, muscular ass in turn, but he took a moment to appreciate the planes of smooth skin and hard muscle under his hands, the broad stretch of Eames' shoulders. There was no call to rush things.

The bedcovers were draped warm over them and Eames was feverishly hot before him. Their mouths moved together wet and eager, tongues tangling, battling for dominance one second, then caressing the next. Arthur squirmed slightly as Eames kneaded his ass, feeling burning arousal wash through him, shortening his breath and bringing a layer of damp perspiration to his temples already.

Maybe Eames had been right, maybe they hadn't needed to get back under the covers after all. But right now it was pleasant. They were both wrapped up in an intimate little cocoon, losing themselves in one another, the body heat and the taste of flesh and the feeling of bold hands rubbing and caressing becoming their world. Arthur wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

"Ah, God, Arthur," Eames panted against his chin, his fingertips sliding down into the slight crease where Arthur's ass cheek met his thigh, squeezing, flexing restlessly. "Your ass...."

Three thoughts hit Arthur in quick succession. Firstly, he wondered whether Eames expected him to bottom or if the other man even had any expectations on that matter at the moment. Then he had a flash of concern as to whether there were either condoms or lube in the apartment. Thirdly, he wondered if full-on penetrative sex was really a good idea right now even if they'd _had_ the right supplies.

The fourth and fifth thoughts came to him shortly thereafter; he didn't really care which one of them topped, was perfectly happy to trade off as the mood warranted, and, no, they probably shouldn't push for penetration tonight. Well, unless Eames had strong thoughts on the matter. In which case Arthur was perfectly willing to work with him.

"Arthur," Eames rasped, the name a warm growl on his lips, emerging from deep in his throat. "Arthur, you're thinking too hard. I can tell."

Arthur couldn't help smiling slightly, even though he felt a little as though he was going to come out of his skin if he didn't get his hands on more of Eames' naked body. "That's what I do. You know that."

Eames pulled back far enough to meet his eyes, and Arthur had thought the man's mouth was ruddy before -- now his lips were amazingly flushed and pressure-bruised. It was plainly sexual and almost looked as though it should be illegal. There was certainly no way to look at them and not think about having them wrapped around his cock at some point.

"It's just sex, darling. You mustn't overthink it."

Arthur scowled. "Don't call me that when we're in doing this," he ordered, though not too vehemently. Even though he liked the way it sounded, spilling off of Eames' lips, affectionate and warm, not a growl like his name.

"Arthur."

There, _that_ growl. That was even better, curling around his dick and tugging almost as viscerally as a physical touch.

"Mm." He stole another kiss from Eames, and any other time he could have spent hours exploring the man's seductive, sensual mouth, but right now he wanted to take his turn touching Eames, grabbing _his_ ass.

"Sex isn't about thinking," Eames continued, as though they were actually talking about his. He tilted his head back and gasping a little as Arthur licked a path down the cords of his neck, tongue sweeping broad and confident over the racing pulse that throbbed so near the surface there. "It's about doing."

"I'm not arguing," Arthur murmured, then bent his head and sank his teeth into the bony arch of Eames' collarbone, hard enough to sting.

Eames let out a strangled sound that was gratifyingly uncontrolled, but Arthur wasn't done, was only getting started. He fanned his fingers over Eames' chest, licking at the spot he had just bitten, feeling a wave of possessive, libidinous heat break through him at the thought of _his_ marks on Eames' body, of being able to see and touch tomorrow, anywhere he had kissed, sucked, bitten tonight.

"Arthur...."

He reveled in the sound of that voice rumbling his name, rolling over his ears, as he let his fingers wander the planes of Eames' chest, thumbs teasing his nipples to hardness, dragging shaky breaths and involuntary noises of pleasure out of Eames with each touch.

One of Eames' hands had left Arthur's ass, migrating up to grasp at his upper back, tugging him closer. Arthur smirked into the curve of Eames' neck and shoulder, tweaking the man's nipples just to feel him jolt against him. They were still far enough apart below the waist that Arthur could only _imagine_ Eames' erection, growing to match his own, throbbing with each new touch... and contrary to what some people might think, Arthur's imagination worked just fine, thank you very much.

That didn't mean he wasn't eager to get his hands on the real thing, of course.

There really was too much of Eames' glorious flesh that Arthur wanted to be touching _right now_ , he mused regretfully as he licked delicately at the dip between Eames' collarbones, sampling the tiny pool of perspiration that had gathered there. Sweet and salt and musk bursting on his tongue, all Eames. All of Eames, there for Arthur; more than he could manage at once, even bringing his mouth into play along with both of his hands.

That was the plan, even though it wasn't going to be _enough_. Because now that he had Eames, naked and in his arms, there was no way that he wasn't going to indulge himself. Up to the point that they both came, and then after, and all over again.... Although, really, Arthur thought, he could spend the rest of their lives touching Eames and not get his fill.

"Here," Arthur growled, rising up and pressing against Eames' shoulder, gently enough that he could have resisted if he'd wanted. But Eames didn't resist, he rolled easily onto his back, and while this meant that one of his hands was pulled away from Arthur's ass, he slotted his fingers around one of Arthur's bony hips instead, holding on tightly, and that was almost as good.

But as nice as it was having Eames' hands on him, strong and sure, not at all shy or hesitant, Arthur figured it was _his_ turn. At least for as long as Eames would lay there and let him explore with his fingertips.

"I like that look in your eye," Eames told him huskily, his own eyes dark and avid as they ran over Arthur's features. Arthur thought that he must be a mess, his hair tangled and disordered from sleep and foreplay, his face flushed all the way down his neck to his upper chest -- damn his pale skin -- and, even though Eames seemed to like it, badly in need of a shave. But despite the fact that he felt sloppy and rumpled, Arthur had to acknowledge that there was enough admiration and appreciation in Eames' gaze to bring a swell of pleasure to his chest, make him blush even more darkly.

The way Eames was looking at him made him feel desirable, sultry. Made him want to let Eames touch, almost as much as he wanted to touch.

Almost.

"You're talking too much," he told Eames, even though that really wasn't true because he loved the sound of Eames' voice. Still, as much as he enjoyed it, he wanted to render Eames unable to articulate, to strip him down to the point where he couldn't frame words, where he was reduced to moans and whimpers.

"Shut me up, then," Eames challenged, his face as flushed as Arthur's felt, his hooded eyes dark and steamy.

Arthur lowered his head, hiding behind his lashes. He wasn't suddenly shy, wasn't playing coy. It had just struck him how different Eames was now compared to the morning of the day before, when he had been huddled in the corner, shaking with adrenaline and leftover horror. Or even earlier that very evening, slumped at the table, despairing over the crippling of his livelihood, the loss of his ability to exercise a well-honed talent, being robbed of a job that he had spent years honing, building a name in, and becoming deeply devoted to. He just didn't want Eames to see the mingled sadness and gladness in his eyes.

Before his pause could capture Eames' attention, Arthur moved to follow his gaze with his mouth. He was extremely happy to find Eames was doing so much better, but he didn't think it would be beneficial to point this out to the man. So he enjoyed the fact silently to himself while he pressed light, open-mouthed kisses to Eames' brow, his lips, his chin, his neck, the bite-mark on his collarbone, then right next to one pointed nipple.

"Arthur." The pad of Eames' thumb rubbed Arthur's cheekbone, the man's fingers curling around the back of his head. The same way his voice saying Arthur's name was rubbing, curling, touching all the right places.

Arthur thought about kissing Eames again, on the mouth, but there were dark lines of ink etched into the flesh of his upper chest and shoulders that were begging for attention. Arthur hook one elbow into the mattress, propping himself over Eames, grinding his hard dick into the bed while he ran his lips, his tongue, and the fingers of his other hand along the paths his eyes had taken before.

"Oh, fuck," Eames breathed, so quietly Arthur almost didn't hear him, as Arthur lapped at one hard nipple, plucking gently at its mate. Arthur glanced up through his lashes, noting the rising flush in Eames' cheeks as the man tossed his head to one side on the pillow, eyes tightly closed, brow creased, his plush lips parted. He had never seen Eames look so enticing, and the fact that he wasn't putting on an act, wasn't even aware that Arthur was looking at him right now, only made it more seductive.

Arthur drew in a carefully controlled breath, his hips rocking involuntarily, his mind already racing ahead to what else he could touch, taste, torment.... But before he could explore further, Eames raised heavy lids and cast a steamy stare down at him. Arthur's dick throbbed as Eames licked his lips, and he almost missed when the man husked, "Harder, Arthur."

"Mm?" He tweaked a nipple more boldly, as instructed, feeling the corners of his mouth curl upward. "What was that?"

Eames caught his lower lip between his teeth, sending another flare of fierce arousal through Arthur, his face already lightly dewed with sweat, his hair a crazy mess, his eyes burning with intensity and desire. "Oh, fuck, Arthur."

"All in good time," Arthur murmured into the flesh of Eames' chest, feeling the man tense and shudder beneath him. He licked along one tattoo, then tracked the tip of his tongue around the nipple he wasn't pinching, before catching it between his teeth. Despite Eames' demand, Arthur was still careful not to bite too vigorously. He wasn't at all opposed to rough sex, but Eames was only a week out from an extended period of being tortured; Arthur wasn't going to be overly careful, but neither was he going to risk hurting Eames, even in an erotic way.

Eames let out a deep groan, which Arthur could feel in the chest beneath him, and his hands latched onto Arthur's shoulders, fingers grasping restlessly, blunt nails digging into his skin.

Arthur had never been a man who couldn't admit when he was wrong, even though he hated to have to, and right now he was coming to realize that maybe Eames had been right about the bedcovers. They were generating enough heat between the two of them to set the Paris night alight -- or at least the air in their small apartment -- and the desire to _see_ all the skin that he was touching, that he was determined to touch, was rapidly outweighing every other consideration.

Twisting a little, he tossed back the sheets, baring both himself and Eames to their knees. To his credit Eames didn't say anything about Arthur's change of heart.... But that might have had something to do with the fact that Arthur had just planted one hand on his belly, below his navel, fingers spread possessively between his hips and just above his hard cock.

The choked sound that Eames loosed wasn't a word, but that was all right because Arthur wasn't listening to him anyway. He was too busy taking in the delicious view stretched out before his eyes.

He'd always known that Eames was well built, fit and powerful beneath his occasionally hideous, sometimes flattering clothing. The man had bulked up a little before the Fischer job, having put on a good ten or fifteen pounds since the last time Arthur had seen him previously, all muscle, and while Arthur had thought that it suited Eames, it hadn't exactly been to his own taste. Now Eames was back down to where Arthur was used to seeing him, after a week of captivity and a week of recovering, with an often poor appetite and no time spent weight lifting.

Eames was still in very decent shape, and Arthur was pleased to be able to note that he looked _good_. Strongly muscled but more lean, nowhere near as wiry as Arthur was, but he wouldn't have wanted the man to be. He'd already made a point of showing appreciation for the man's pectorals, his nipples, his tattoos, though of course he was nowhere near done. But there was also his stomach to be appreciated, flat and firm. And below that.... Well, it was comforting for Arthur to have _visual_ proof that the other man was just as into this as he was.

Not that he had doubted it, but that was one fine cock right there.

Arthur was circumcised, himself and so he'd always had a fascination -- a completely healthy fascination, thanks very much -- with men who were uncut. Or, rather, their dicks. That extra bit of skin shouldn't have made so much difference, and yet it invariable made things that much hotter.

He looked but didn't allow himself to touch. Not yet. Instead, he traced patterns in the soft skin of Eames' belly, watching his erection bob, twitching as Arthur very carefully scratched at his pubes with gentle nails. Then it was Eames' whole body twitching as Arthur drew a circle around his navel, and the choked sound he let out was more hysterical than aroused.

Arthur cast a wicked glance upward, making the circle again, more slowly this time. "Ticklish?" he asked, smirking. Without waiting for an answer, he shifted and bent at the waist so that he could stick his tongue in Eames' bellybutton. Well, Eames had an outtie, but Arthur was adept at working with what he had.

Eames yelped, bowing in toward Arthur, one hand locking in Arthur's hair, fingers clenching. He didn't yank, but he did tug, and Arthur bit at his stomach in retaliation, even though he actually, privately, found hair pulling to be incredibly sexy.

Eames flailed and Arthur took pity on him. Pressing his palm over the spot he had been teasing, he kissed his way down, toward where Eames was surely currently craving his attentions. Craving his _mouth_.

He hadn't really intended to just dive into this. But now that he was so close, he found that he couldn't resist. He couldn't remember why he might have wanted to resist.

He was pretty sure he heard Eames utter a strangled profanity, and the fingers in his hair tightened, pulling hard enough to almost bring tears to his eyes. But he had Eames' dick in his hand, solid and heavy against his palm, hot and throbbing, the foreskin drawn back a bit from the head so that Arthur had easy access to the bead of clear liquid at its tip. There wasn't _anything_ that could distract him right now.

It was probably a bit cruel to just lean forward and lick that thick droplet away, but as far as Arthur was concerned it would have been more cruel not to do it. He clasped the thick shaft in his hand, noting with pleasure that Eames' cock was quite a nice size and shape, much larger now that it was erect. He used the pad of his thumb to carefully tug at the foreskin, running the tip of his tongue underneath, easing his mouth around most of the head and savoring the salty tang for a moment before he started sucking.

"Ugh." Eames was already writhing beneath him, and Arthur hadn't even started in on a good blowjob in earnest, was still exploring, toying with the delicious dick in his mouth. The leg that Arthur wasn't leaning partway over came up, and Arthur knew without looking that Eames' toes were digging into the mattress. He placed a hand on Eames' thigh, tense muscle flexing beneath his palm, smooth skin and prickling hairs. Arthur breathed through his nose, sinking lower, sliding his hand down the shaft as his lips moved to claim the length relinquished by his fingers. He bobbed for a few shallow strokes, going deeper each time. Eames' pubic hairs were thick and damp under his fingers, the skin beneath blazing hot.

Eames' hips were shifting against the mattress, and Arthur could appreciate the restraint that was keeping the man from arching up to thrust into his throat, while at the same time acknowledging that he wouldn't be at all upset if Eames had done so.

In point of fact, Arthur's own hips were moving, grinding his throbbing dick into the bed. While he would have liked to ease the mounting ache, he knew that it would be more satisfying in the long run if he concentrated on Eames' pulsing cock in his mouth. More blood-hot precome spilled onto his tongue, silk-smooth flesh and heated hardness sliding between his lips. His jaw was already starting to ache a little -- it had been a while since he had last done this, and Eames was thicker than he was used to -- but there was no way he was going to stop merely because of this slight inconvenience.

No, he wasn't inclined to stop, but a short break wasn't out of place. He withdrew slowly off of Eames' cock, fluttering his tongue along the shaft, pausing to very carefully but deliberately close his teeth around the base of the crown, biting it gently through the hood of his foreskin. He let off the pressure immediately when Eames jolted under him, his hips spasming upward.

Lifting his head, Arthur licked lips that had very nearly gone numb from the friction and pressure. Eames was staring down at him, awe and disbelief warring with extreme arousal, and Arthur couldn't help smirking, his lips beginning to tingle pleasantly.

"Told you," he said smugly, and perhaps a bit nonsensically, sitting up and wiping his chin, which had gotten a little sloppy. His hair was falling in his eyes but he let it, because he had the distinct impression that Eames liked seeing him like this. At least the man certainly _looked_ entranced as he stared at Arthur, although that might have more to do with the partial blowjob Arthur had just been giving him and the fact that his mouth was still ripe and damp from that.

"You do have a predilection for using your teeth," Eames panted breathlessly, reaching down and curling his fingers beneath Arthur's jaw. His hand was trembling, but Arthur was one hundred percent certain that this time it was _not_ due to fear.

"Do you want me to stop?" Arthur asked, running his tongue over said teeth and watching Eames flush more darkly, his already dilated pupils spreading like a drop of ink on paper. Arthur bit his lower lip, and Eames actually moaned. He hadn't actually meant to do that... but it had obviously been the right move. It was as much Eames' reaction as it was the sharpness of his own teeth that caused Arthur's dick to jump, giving a pulse that left him with a hot smear of precome on his thigh.

"Not... not exactly," Eames husked, twisting at the waist, getting one elbow underneath himself and bending upward toward Arthur. Without letting go his grip on Eames' cock, Arthur leaned to meet Eames, their mouths meshing in a hungry open-mouthed kiss. Eames grabbed the back of Arthur's head with his free hand, sinking his fingers into hair he'd already mussed beyond repair, licking his way into Arthur's mouth, chasing his own flavor mingled with the other man's saliva.

Arthur gave Eames' erection a tug, the flesh still wet enough that his hand moved easily over the shaft. Eames didn't have much leeway, with his elbow locked under him, holding himself up, but the palm of that hand managed to find Arthur's leg, clasping it just above his knee. Nowhere near where either of them wanted it to be, Arthur thought idly, as he stroked Eames' hard cock a couple more times just to hear him whine into his mouth, to feel him arch up into both the kiss and the hand around his hard-on.

Arthur lifted his head away, raising heavy lids with difficulty, and letting go of Eames' cock. Before Eames could recover, Arthur had moved and was suddenly straddling the other man, his narrow flanks resting on Eames' stomach, then on Eames' hips as he scooted back slightly.

Eames eyes came open wide as Arthur's hands landed on his shoulders, and their gaze met, both equally frenetic.

"Not exactly?" Arthur prompted, fighting the urge to descend and sink his teeth into Eames' lower lip. He could still see the bite-mark he had put on Eames' collarbone, dark tooth-imprints standing out against his flushed skin. He stared at it, giving serious consideration to returning to that spot, clamping down until there were deeper bruises, small curved grooves in two half moons, purple and pulsing against Eames' golden skin. But he held off, not sure how Eames would take it. And also because Eames hadn't answered his question.

Eames gasped, color high in his cheeks, his eyes burning, as though he had read Arthur's mind. Perhaps he had; Arthur hadn't exactly been subtle. "I... God, no, I don't want you to stop," he got out, his voice a sandpaper rasp that sent shivers over the surface of Arthur's skin. "But, Arthur, darling, turn-about is fair play."

"I told you not to call me that," Arthur directed, but he was a little distracted, trailing his fingertips over the mark he'd bitten in Eames' collarbone and making the man shiver beneath him. He could feel Eames' stomach muscles flexing beneath his inner thighs and he knew that if he moved back even half an inch, he'd feel the hot, hard length of Eames' cock against the crack of his rear.

That thought was almost enough to have him doing so, but he didn't, because Eames' hands had just landed on his hips, holding him still. He could have broken free, but he wasn't going to fight Eames to do so. And, besides, he didn't _want_ to.

"Arthur. Arthur, I need to see you... I need to feel you... I would very much like to suck you."

There was no mistaking Eames' meaning, not from the way his heated gaze flickered down Arthur's chest and stomach, tilting his chin down as far as it would go in an attempt to get a clear look at Arthur's erection, which was currently jutting between them in a way that suggested it had been ignored long enough.

"Oh." Arthur shifted, rising a little on his knees, his hands sinking into the pillow to either side of Eames' head as he bent to claim a kiss -- as much to block Eames' view as because he really needed to get his mouth on those plush lips. He could be an asshole like that, liked to tease in the interest of drawing things out. "Well, all right then. As you said, that's only fair."

Instead of moving off of Eames, however, he levered down and gave in to temptation, biting at the mark he'd already set in Eames' flesh, though not as hard as he really wanted to. He was hyperaware of the way the head of his dick dragged across Eames' stomach, knew that Eames was just as aware when the man gripped his hips hard enough to be painful and let out a hoarse, rolling groan, his head tipping back to expose the long line of his throat.

Arthur tilted his head slightly, eyeing all that flawless flesh. There for him to taste, to take, to bruise and bite and mark as his....

Arthur could feel a heated hardness against his lower back as Eames arched his hips up, and he abruptly straightened and sat back, bearing them both down into the mattress.

Eames looked startled for all of one second, then he grinned delightedly. It shouldn't be possible to look _that_ gleeful and _that_ turned on at the same time, Arthur thought. But from the way his own mouth was stretched and tipped up at the corners, he suspected he looked much the same.

One of Eames' hands shifted down from Arthur's hip to wrap unhesitatingly around Arthur's erection. "Ah, now that's impressive," he rumbled, his eyes gleaming, his chin tucked onto his chest again, so that he could see that far down his own torso. Arthur caught his breath as Eames gave his dick a tug that was far too light to be at all satisfying. "But I'd already guessed." His smile was less broad but a lot more suggestive and intimate, his gaze dark and steamy, as he continued. "Those fitted slacks left very little to the imagination."

Arthur was breathless and unable to let out anything other than a small grunt, but he took a modicum of vengeance when he ground backward, not to get away from Eames' hold on his dick, but in order to press his ass back into Eames' neglected hard-on.

Eames' mouth fell open, his eyes going blank and glazed.

"Ah, and yet, you see," Arthur hissed, leaning toward Eames, feeling the man's knuckles brush his stomach where he refused to let go of his dick, "I have it on good authority that you _have_ been using your imagination."

Eames' eyes flashed and he surged up. Anticipating, Arthur met him halfway and their mouths collided, roughly at first, and then more softly, with more sensual enjoyment as their lips meshed, tongues darting out to play between the hard breaths they were both sucking in, gasping out.

The pad of Eames' thumb was firm against the head of Arthur's dick, brushing through the welling precome, smearing it over the sensitive flesh. Arthur was suddenly filled with the sudden burning desire to come _right now_ , but he reeled that thought back in, tucking it down, because there was more fun to be had. Not to mention, it would be kind of embarrassing if he popped off simply from this.

"I would very much like you to suck me," he whispered against Eames' mouth, slitting his eyes open and taking in the flushed cheeks, the sweat-dewed hair, the long lashes that had fallen to hide his sex-hazed gaze again. "I want your cocksucking lips on me. I want you to have everything you wanted and more. But first...." Eames whined as Arthur pulled away, crawling backward, which in turn tugged his dick free from Eames' possessive grip. Arthur maneuvered carefully so that instead of straddling Eames, he was kneeling between the man's spread thighs.

"But first, " he repeated, licking a line down the center of Eames' quivering chest and stomach, until he reached the point that he could taste the precome his own hard erection had dribbled on the man's belly, until he could feel the hot, wet, demanding head of Eames' cock bumping against his chin, "I would very much like to get your own cock back in my mouth. I want to make you come on my tongue and I want to swallow it all. Then I'll fuck your cocksucking lips and come on your face."

He looked up, tongue lapping at the skin below Eames' bellybutton, knowing that his gaze was dark and predatory as he peered through messy strands of loose hair.

Eames' cock jumped, loosing a thick blurt of hot, thick precome against the underside of Arthur's jaw and he smirked. Eames had almost lost it just then, Arthur was sure of it.

"God, the mouth on you," Eames rasped, reaching down and grabbing clumsily at Arthur's face, palms sliding hot and sweaty over Arthur's equally feverish cheekbones, fingers scrabbling at the delicate skin behind Arthur's ears. That shouldn't have been as sexy as it was, and yet... well, it was _Eames_.

"You know how to shut me up," Arthur told him, smiling and then very deliberately licking his teeth again.

"I don't want to shut you up," Eames protested breathlessly, his fingers kneading at Arthur's skull, his eyes sharp and his expression earnest despite the high color in his cheeks and the rapid gust of his breathing. Arthur took a moment to appreciate his groin-level view, up the flat plane of Eames' belly, the gentle swell of his pecs, to the man's face. That was a lot of delicious, tempting flesh... but the real prize was out of his sight right now, throbbing hot against his neck, his chin, twitching as though it had a mind of its own.

"I love to hear you talk dirty," Eames continued, biting at his fat lower lip. "I'd very much like to hear you continue along that vein. But right now...."

"Right now I could be putting my mouth to better use," Arthur supplied, the corner of said mouth quirking, his eyes crinkling in honest amusement.

Eames nodded, chin bumping against his heaving chest because he didn't seem at all inclined to look away from Arthur, and Arthur decided to take pity on him.

Reaching down, he grabbed the root of Eames' cock, feeling the man's balls drawn up tight and close, filling his palm. He pressed Eames' erection down against his belly as he used his other arm to lever up and back a little bit more, giving it a heavy couple of upward strokes; petting it as though it were a prize terrier, Eames might have said. If he'd still had the power of speech, that was.

"Scoot up a little," Arthur instructed, running his other hand along the soft line of Eames' inner thigh, looking up at the man's face again. He wanted a better angle of approach, so long as Eames was capable of performing the action he'd requested of him. "Eames?"

Somehow Eames managed it, struggling onto his elbows, then working his way up the mattress until he was propped back against the pillow behind him in a half reclining sprawl. Arthur let go his hold on Eames' cock in order to grab his hips and help him, but once Eames was in place, his face flushed and glistening with perspiration, his lips parted, gaze dark and filled with naked desire, Arthur's hand went right back to that fascinating cock.

He wanted to play with it some more, explore the length and breadth of it, toy with the foreskin... but he had a feeling that if he played with it any more he might wind up taking a shot in the eye. And, besides, it would be cruel to torment Eames any further, past what the man could stand. Arthur could be a tease, liked to draw things out, but he tried not to be a complete asshole about it. There would be time enough to grow well acquainted with Eames' cock later, he decided. Later, after they had both come.

He took a moment to tug down the foreskin, sweeping his tongue over the blunt head again, tasting Eames and sex and desperate, overwhelming arousal. Eames made a sound that was very close to pained, and Arthur decided he'd teased long enough. He tilted Eames' cock toward him at the same time he opened his mouth, then slid quickly down far enough to meet his fingers, where he now clasped the base of the shaft.

It wasn't easy, going right down so abruptly like this, and as he'd already noted, Eames' cock was fatter than he was used to. But he managed his gag reflex before it had a chance to kick in, and the little cry he got out of Eames, the way the man's entire body jolted underneath him, made it more than worth the slight struggle. Well, that and the fact that now he was full of cock. Which was always a reward in and of itself, as far as Arthur was concerned.

Arthur was bent over Eames' lap, one hand on the man's thigh, the other still palming his balls, clasping the root of his cock. His own unflagging erection bobbed in the air, neglected, but he had another dick to concentrate on right now. His lips were stretched wide around the fat shaft of Eames' cock, he could feel the strain in the corners of his mouth, and he wouldn't have had it any other way.

The way that Arthur had Eames pinned down the man couldn't really move at all, although his hips were shifting restlessly beneath Arthur, instinctively, involuntarily attempting to thrust despite the fact that he had no leverage to do so. Since Eames couldn't do it for himself, Arthur went into action, pulling nearly all the way off before sliding back down to where his lips met his fingers, doing it all over, and then again.

That was the point at which Eames stiffened, bowed up in a tight arc, and yelped as he came, spilling hot and thick in Arthur's mouth.

Arthur swallowed, then slid slickly down Eames' thick cock on more time, before pulling off entirely. He didn't judge Eames for coming so quickly; he'd been teasing, toying, playing the man for several minutes, after all. And to be fair, Arthur was almost ready to shoot his own load himself, without the benefit of any physical stimulation, just from the salty spread of Eames' come over his tongue, the ache in his jaw and throat, his tingling lips, and the sounds that Eames was making as he gasped for breath, whimpering, coming down from his orgasm. Ready to come simply from knowing that _he_ had done that to Eames, had rendered him a sprawled, quivering wreck.

"Arthur...." And there it was again, his name in that raspy, fuck-out voice.

Grabbing a corner of the sheets to wipe his lips and chin off with quickly, Arthur shifted up to lean over Eames. Instead of kissing that deliriously tempting mouth, though, Arthur bit, nipping sharply at a fat lower lip that was dented with marks from Eames' own teeth.

"Arthur." Eames slung one heavy arm up and around his shoulders and neck, urging him down, and Arthur complied. He eased himself down onto Eames, his hard dick rubbing through the other man's pubes, along his tight stomach, and pressed his lips more softly against Eames', kissing him deeply enough that he knew Eames could taste himself in Arthur's mouth.

"Now, about that promise I made, to come on your face," Arthur mumbled against Eames' chin, because if he lay here on top of that hard, heated body any longer, he was going to hump his way to completion against Eames' belly. And while that would be satisfying, couldn't be anything but, that was not the way Arthur intended to end this portion of the night's tryst.

"That is, if you're up to it," he added. Because it had been his suggestion, not Eames'. Even though Eames had reacted enthusiastically, it had been in the middle of a blowjob, and so Arthur wanted to make sure that it was something Eames wanted as well, something Eames still wanted, before he continued on that vein.

Considering the expression on Eames' face, he needn't have worried. Eames looked dazed, fucked out, exhausted. His eyes were molten slits beneath heavy lids and his features were slack with repletion. And yet there was even more desire there, heating his sleepy gaze, coloring his languid face, and he reached up, running a restless hand through Arthur's hair even though he hadn't looked as though he'd had the energy to so much as move.

"Arthur, my darling," Eames drawled, and with that rumble in his voice, that warm tone to the endearment, Arthur found that he didn't mind it that much after all, "If you don't fuck my mouth and come on my face, I fear I shall be terribly insulted."

Arthur felt a bubble of laughter in his chest, but he was too turned on to tap it. Instead he growled and claimed Eames' lips all over again; the lips that were very soon going to be wrapped around his dick, in fact. And now that he'd gotten Eames off, while he could still taste the man's come in his own mouth, Arthur realized that he wanted to get his pulsing erection dealt with sooner rather than later.

While his instincts were urging him to rut against Eames' stomach, to grind himself to climax that way, Arthur knew better than his instincts, and with one last nibble at Eames' fat lower lip, he pulled away.

Eames let out a gratifyingly needy whine, stretching up after him, and now Arthur loosed that chuckle. It sounded more predatory than anything else, he had to admit, but Eames didn't seem to mind. If anything, he looked even more turned on.

"How should we do this?" Arthur asked, pausing for a moment. "What are you up for?"

Eames opened his mouth, looking offended, but then his face darkened and he caught his lower lip between his teeth. As much as Arthur normally would have liked to push Eames down and _force_ the pleasure on him, as much as he'd have liked to grab the man's face and hold it still while he fucked into his throat -- and something told him that this was a skill Eames would have mastered as well as Arthur had -- he also wasn't willing to do anything that might trigger Eames, remind him of his extensive torture, just a little over seven days past.

Maybe someday they would be able to engage in the rougher side of sex, two strong men coming together with an assurance that they weren't going to hurt one another, but right now Eames was still recovering. Only a week ago he'd been suffering cruel, uncompromising, malicious physical assaults ending in death that had gone on for days, weeks, months at a time, that had seemed unending. Arthur suspected that he would offend Eames if he tried to handle him too gingerly, but neither was he going to treat him too aggressively. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did and Eames took it badly.

After a moment in which they both clearly reflected on things they would rather not have had brought to the forefront of their minds, Eames made an almost visible effort to shake it off. "Nothing wrong with the way you did it," he murmured, turning onto his side, toward Arthur. His movements were languorous, loose, and Arthur felt a small pulse of pride that he had been responsible for this.

Arthur and Eames shifted, pressing close for a few moments, and Arthur took the opportunity to steal a few kisses. Eames stole a few of his own, kissing Arthur's cheek, his chin, then bending to mouth at his collarbone. Arthur sank his fingers into Eames' hair, torn between holding him there and forcing him lower. He would have loved to have Eames bite him with those crooked teeth of his, mark him the way he had marked Eames, but he was also afraid that if Eames _did_ bite right now he'd lose it and shoot all over Eames' stomach.

Before he could resolve this internal conflict, Eames took care of it for him, pulling away and moving down between Arthur's legs. While Arthur had crouched before Eames, bending over his crotch, Eames dropped down in a loose sprawl, letting a small sound of discontent when his lower half cleaved chill sheets. He slumped there a moment, his cheek pressed to Arthur's stomach, Arthur's dick pushing up against his jaw, one hand sliding restlessly down the outside of Arthur's thigh to his hip.

Arthur let out a breath, sinking into the pillow and mattress. The sheets were warm from Eames' body heat, and the smell of the man wrapped around his senses in a haze of sensual seduction. He appreciated this respite, giving him a chance to calm down, to control his ardor without cooling it, but he hoped that it wasn't indicative of Eames losing his nerve.

It wasn't. He could be confident of this when Eames turned his head, brushing his lips against Arthur's belly, then he was in motion. He raised his head, wrapped his hand around Arthur's straining erection, and took a good long look at it.

Arthur could feel himself flushing, but it wasn't out of shyness or embarrassment. He wanted to tell Eames to put it in his mouth _now_ , but it was such an intense moment of stillness, there was so much admiration there that he almost felt the desire to stretch and purr, displaying himself for Eames.

"Lovely," Eames murmured, running the pad of his thumb up the thickest vein, and making Arthur shudder, his hips rocking against the mattress. "Arthur, you _are_ a big boy."

Only Eames, Arthur thought, would exasperate him enough to cause him to roll his eyes during sex. "Just put it in your mouth," he instructed, trying to soften his tone by gentling the hands he still had locked in Eames' hair.

Fortunately for them both, Eames did as directed, mimicking Arthur in that he took him all the way down, without hesitation.

"Oh, fuck," Arthur choked out, nearly snapping his spine with the effort of not thrusting up into that slick, hot softness. Not that he probably would have been able to -- Eames had a pretty good hold on his hips and he still had at least as much strength as Arthur had, plus gravity was on his side.

Arthur wasn't expecting much by way of finesse by this point, nor did he want it. Eames was still wrung out from his recent orgasm, and Arthur was so close to his that it nearly hurt.

As though he knew this, Eames set about stripping Arthur's climax out of him with demanding vigor, with hot-wet suction and a hand that was entirely too clever as it ventured down to fondle Arthur's balls, then further, more boldly, fingertips pressing into his perineum, massaging it with both knowledge and skill.

Arthur choked out something that even he wasn't sure contained words, his head falling back into the pillow. There was so much tension building between his shoulderblades, but it was nothing to compare to the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his groin. Heat surged through him, reddening his chest, making his thighs quiver to either side of Eames, he knew he was clutching at Eames' hair hard enough to hurt, and then there was a fingertip sliding between his clenching ass cheeks, brushing carefully, delicately, even as Eames virtually hoovered his brains out through his dick, and that was it, he was gone.

Very faintly he was aware of Eames' broad, strong hands on him, holding him steady while he shook his way through a really tremendous orgasm. All he could see was red, his chest was so tight he couldn't breathe, the tension had reached its pinnacle, and when it loosed, he lost all ability to function, except perhaps on a higher plane of existence.

Once he recovered, came back to reality, he realized that he and Eames were back in their original positions, where they had been lying before Eames had awakened Arthur by elbowing him in the face, only they had reversed sides. It was strange to be on the side of the bed that he considered to be _Eames'_ , but Arthur was too rubber-limbed, too exhausted to even think about moving. At least not right now.

He was sticky and sated and badly in need of a washcloth -- if not a quick shower, despite the fact that it was the middle of the night. Eames was draped against him, arms tight around him, like a great sweaty blanket. Arthur couldn't think of any way he would rather be feeling right now.

"All right?" Eames whispered against his temple, his voice a heated gust.

"Better than all right," Arthur managed to get out, shifting so that he could catch Eames' eyes. He smiled, a little surprised that his face had retained the ability to do so. "Are you fishing for compliments?"

Eames smiled back, but there was a shadow to his gaze that abruptly had Arthur feeling concerned, even though he was really too wiped out to work himself up. "No," Eames rumbled, his voice deep and raspy. "I meant... are _you_ all right? Are _we_ all right?"

Arthur felt too relaxed to take this badly. "I thought we'd already discussed this," he said, carefully but gently. "We're two consenting adults, we both want this. And if you're asking whether I regret what we just did... well, you can... you can just piss off."

Eames chuckled a little but the darkness in his gaze was not banished. "It's just that.... Well, don't think I'm not grateful for the rescue, and the way you've been taking care of me, and the tumble, and... and _everything_ that you've done for me.... But, Arthur, I never really thought that you... were that fond of me. Sometimes, in the past, I got the distinct sense that you actually _disliked_ me. I'm wondering when that changed."

"I never disliked you," Arthur protested, frowning at Eames. He could understand why it might have seemed that way, but he had thought that Eames would have seen beyond the surface, seen to the truth. He had been wrong, though, obviously. "I've always liked you. Even though you sometimes drove me crazy." He had to be honest. "And even though you usually annoyed me."

Eames smiled again, more easily this time, and finally his gaze lightened somewhat. "Oh."

"You can't tell me you didn't set out to deliberately annoy me," Arthur pressed, running his hand over Eames' cheek, brushing sweat-damp hair back out of his face. "At least some of the time."

Eames opened his mouth, and Arthur's dick gave a weak twitch. Even though he was spent, he would never not find Eames' lips completely pornographic. Especially when they were parted, moist, and flushed red. Especially not when he was achingly aware that they had literally been wrapped around Arthur's erection a handful of minutes ago, not when there was still a streak of pearly come at one corner of his mouth.

Arthur raised his brows, waiting.

Eames lowered his lashes, his expression melting into a sheepish smile that was far too charming. "Well." Arthur continued to wait, biting back an answering smile, playing along. Eames glanced up at him, a coy look that almost undid him entirely. "Only some of the time. And only because your reactions were always so utterly adorable."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but it was more for effect than anything else, because it was expected.

Eames edged forward, looking disconcertingly trepidatious, and Arthur quickly pressed in, plastering his lips against Eames', the way he had been wanting to do. They traded a long, languid kiss, tongue tangling without urgency, without any need to arouse or titillate. Not that Arthur wasn't aroused... but it would be a while yet before he could do anything about it. He was still pretty wrung out from the orgasm Eames had sucked out of him.

"I'm sorry for the times I treated you rudely," Arthur offered, after their mouths parted with a wet sound. And he meant what he said, but he felt compelled to qualify it. "When you weren't baiting me, that is."

Eames smirked, but his expression was more than a little relieved. "I suppose I should apologize for baiting you."

"Mm. But would you _mean_ the apology?" Arthur asked. He was beginning to think that getting back under the covers would be a good idea because it was getting chilly again now that they weren't generating so much heat between them, but doing so would require cleaning themselves off first, which would mean moving. And he wasn't sure he was up for that quite yet. Especially not with Eames' arm still wrapped around him, Eames' broad chest warm against his own, and their faces only inches apart.

"You really did have the most delightful reactions," Eames supplied, and it was wonderful to see him looking so honestly amused. Arthur felt like it had been a long time.

"All right then, partial apology accepted," Arthur murmured. "As long as you forgive the fact that I didn't really realize that we were..." he hesitated, but he had to say it, "Friends... until after you asked me for help."

Eames' eyes darkened at this reminder, but then he smiled, and the expression was warm, with an openness that Arthur had never seen him evince before. Arthur felt a little better for not having been able to read Eames, because the fact of the matter was that the forger had always hidden behind a mask -- at least when he was interacting with Arthur. And now Arthur was seeing him as though for the first time, stripped and raw and willing to let Arthur in. _Trusting_ Arthur enough to let him in.

"I'll bet you didn't realize that Ariadne was a friend also," Eames hummed, and he looked indulgent and fond. "Or that Saito was a friend. Or that Cobb wasn't such a good friend as you thought."

Arthur scowled faintly at that last, but didn't have the heart to muster up any real indignation. "Well," he said, "I can't argue with that last... but I'm inclined to anyway."

Eames gave him a bright smile, as though he had fulfilled the faith Eames had placed in him. As though he had _gotten_ it. "And, that, my sweet Arthur, is what friends do."

Arthur smiled back, then pulled himself together and suggested they go and clean up in the bathroom before getting back to sleep. And something came to him while he and Eames dragged themselves reluctantly out of bed, while he ran a damp, warm washcloth over Eames' s stomach and then his own as Eames did absolutely nothing to help, bending over to press fluttering kisses on Arthur's shoulder.

It came to him that they _were_ friends... but they were also more. At least, he knew that he considered Eames to be something more. And he hoped that Eames held him in the same regard.

But since he wasn't yet ready to put a name to the emotion, since he had only just found himself able to admit to _friendship_ , he decided not to push things. Not right now.

He wasn't going anywhere. He was going to stay with Eames and they were going to have lots more sex, now that he knew both of them wanted it. And he had small doubt that they would also have more awkward conversations about their feelings. And eventually, when the time was right, Arthur would be able to tell Eames what the man meant to him.

Not tonight, though. Tonight he curled up around Eames, back in the bed that had cooled while they'd been in the bathroom, switched off the lamp, and listened to Eames breathe as they pressed close, sharing body heat and rapidly warming the sheets. A drowsy contentment crept over Arthur's limbs, fogged his mind, and he drifted off to sleep hoping that Eames felt as good as he did, here in the bed with Arthur.

If there was anything he could have wanted for the man, it was that.

+++

The next morning could have been awkward. But it wasn't.

They woke much the same as always, just as tightly wrapped around one another as most mornings, although here was more nudity involved than usual.

Arthur kissed away the anxious look in Eames' eyes before it even had a chance to fully form, and got to see the man's tight expression melt into a soft smile that was so contented that it made Arthur feel warm inside just seeing it. This was what he had been wanting for Eames all along; this peace of mind, this joy in life. He wasn't blindly optimistic enough to think that it was going to last, all the time, that he had healed Eames' with the magical power of his dick. The man still had loads of recovering to do.

But at least now, when he needed support, when he reached out, Arthur could hold him, could reach back, and neither of them needed to fear rejection. That was probably at least part of what had lightened Eames' eyes, made his face crease in that happy smile.

"You should smile more often," Eames murmured, and until he spoke the words, Arthur hadn't even realized that he was smiling back at Eames. He was glad of it, though.

"We should shower," he said. Not diverting on purpose, because it was okay for Eames to notice things like that, to say things like that to him. But it was habit, deeply ingrained and not so easily shed. And, besides, they really _should_ shower. He was hungry and wanted to bathe before they went out to make breakfast. He wondered whether he could talk Eames into making waffles again.

"I like the sound of that," Eames purred, stretching against him, a full body contact that set all Arthur's nerve endings alight and reminded his dick of what he and Eames had been doing the night before.

Which was how they ended up having sex in the shower. And that was another thing that was different. Definitely a change for the better, as far as Arthur was concerned.

+++

"If I went to visit Cobb, would you guys come with me?" Ariadne asked. She was curled up on the loveseat again, the same way she had sat two night before, only now it was late afternoon and they were beginning to think about making dinner.

"What?" Arthur stared at her, startled.

"There's no hurry," she hastened to add, waving her hands, her eyes wide and guileless. "Cobb said it was an open invitation. We could go whenever you're up to it."

She said this to both of them, but they all knew she was speaking of Eames. Then again, if Eames wasn't ready to travel, Arthur certainly wasn't going to go anywhere without him.

"What do you think?" Arthur asked Eames.

The man was lying beside him in the sofa, just as he had been two days ago, with his head once again cushioned on Arthur's thigh.

Ariadne's eyes had rounded when she had entered the apartment and taken a good look at the two of them. Arthur had wondered why, when she had seen both of them in varied states of dishabille plenty of times in the past week; in pyjamas, in sweatpants, in teeshirts, neither of them with product in their hair....

So Arthur couldn't figure out why there was so much shock and wonder in her voice when she'd gasped out, "You're both wearing jeans!"

"We are," he had replied, with a quirked brow.

"Felt it was about time I started wearing big boy clothing again," Eames had rumbled, his smile as wry as it was amused. He'd run a hand down the front of his button-up shirt, a self conscious gesture, an uncertain, almost shy expression on his face.

Arthur had had to tamp down on a powerful desire to kiss that look away. Not that he thought Ariadne would have minded in the slightest. But what there was between himself and Eames, well, it wasn't something to be dragged out before _anyone_ else, even somebody that they both trusted as much as they trusted Ariadne. Not because Arthur was in any way ashamed or wanted to keep it hidden.

No, it was just that it was too personal, too private.

"You look incredible," Ariadne had hastened to reassure. "Both of you." She'd smiled a little sheepishly, then folded her arms. "I just wouldn't have thought you _owned_ any jeans. Either of you."

Arthur had flushed faintly, and Eames had grinned, completely placated. "I will admit, it was a pleasant surprise, seeing Arthur pull those out of his bag," he'd drawled, and everything was fine. They moved back into their regular routine, three pieces slotted together seamlessly even in this small apartment for two. None of them would want Ariadne here all the time, Ariadne herself included, but her visits were most welcome.

Eames seemed to be giving Arthur's query serious thought, his lips plumped and pink. Arthur found he was tracing the fat swell of the man's lower lip before he realized, his mind slipping back to the night before and the fact that this luscious mouth had been wrapped around his dick.

He caught himself after the fact, withdrawing his hand quickly but not abruptly and placing his palm, instead, on Eames' upper chest. He raised his eyes, and saw the same fond, indulgent expression on Ariadne's face that she had worn two nights ago.... And he realized that she _knew_ , she'd probably known before either of the two of them had, and that she wasn't surprised in the slightest.

"It might be nice to see Cobb again," Eames finally said, licking his lips. Arthur felt a throb of heat in a very vital area, and tried to will it away. Now was not the time, no matter how okay Ariadne was with the blooming relationship between the two men. Besides, they still had dinner to make and eat. "And I'd like to meet the sprogs he was so desperate to get back to that he nearly consigned all of us to limbo."

"But you're not bitter or anything," Ariadne said dryly. She was smiling, though; didn't seem offended on Cobb's behalf. Then again, Arthur didn't feel any overwhelming desire to speak up for Cobb. Because what Eames had said was true.

"Not bitter," Eames replied seriously, sitting up, swinging his feet down onto the floor. Arthur was pretty sure Eames was wearing a pair of _his_ socks. Not that he minded. In the shower that morning he'd gone down on his knees and licked his way into Eames' ass before turning him and sucked him until he was swallowing another mouthful of come. He really couldn't complain if Eames wore any of his clothing.

Well, as long as it wasn't any of his suits. Because if Eames stretched any of _those_ out, there would be hell to pay.

"Not bitter," Eames repeated, calling Arthur's mind back from lascivious images and pornographic memories. "But it's going to be a while before I trust the man again. Keep that in mind, Ariadne, love."

Ariadne gave Eames wide eyes, and Arthur couldn't be sure whether she missed Eames' meaning or not, but he knew that he felt the same way. He hadn't been able to get out of Cobb whether the man had any intentions other than those of a mentor for a gifted student, any emotions other than those of a man who'd gotten everything that he'd wanted and found himself lonely in his domestic dream, but he agreed with Eames. While he'd been loyal to Cobb, had helped him to perform inception even when he had thought it was impossible, it would be a long time before Cobb earned back his trust. And the man had just better not try anything with Ariadne until after that point.

She'd told Arthur once that she was an only child. But now she had two adoptive older brothers, whether she wanted them or no. And they were going to do whatever it took to keep her from being hurt.

"I'm going to start dinner," Ariadne announced, rising to her feet. The fact that she didn't request clarification made Arthur inclined to think that she _had_ gotten Eames' meaning. But if she didn't want to pursue the conversation, he wasn't going to push.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Eames said, shifting to the edge of the sofa, though he didn't stand yet.

"Do you want to help me with dinner?" Ariadne asked Arthur. He glanced at Eames.

Eames gave him a gimlet stare in return. "I can take a leak by myself," he told Arthur. "Big boy, remember?"

Arthur couldn't help smiling, dropping his head slightly. Eames was right; he didn't dare to leave the man alone for extended periods, but trips to the toilet were perfectly doable.

"I remember," he said, well aware that he had allowed more than a little sexual gravel to creep into his voice. Eames looked a little stunned and Arthur stole a quick kiss. He knew all the reasons he shouldn't, but there were even more reasons he should.

Eames glanced quickly at Ariadne, who was turning toward the kitchen, but with a broad smile on her face, and Arthur captured his cheek with one hand.

"Eames."

Ariadne was gone, and so Arthur leaned over and kissed Eames the way he _wanted_ , wet tongue and nipping teeth. He would never get tired of that mouth, and all the things that it could do. Not to mention the man it was attached to.

"Dirty pool," Eames mumbled against Arthur's mouth, one of his hands landing heavy on Arthur's thigh, nails catching at the thick seam in the denim. "Shouldn't get me all riled up when lovely Ariadne is still in the apartment."

Arthur pulled back, licking his lips. "Now you know how I've felt all afternoon," he returned. He was glad he was wearing jeans and not his usual slacks, but he was still going to have to adjust himself before he ventured into the kitchen.

"Do you think she would find it odd if we both took a shower right now?" Eames rumbled, and those... _those_ were bedroom eyes if Arthur had ever seen any. "She is cooking dinner, after all."

"Go and take a leak, Mr. Eames," Arthur directed seriously, though he was grinning widely. Eames surged forward into a heavy, lip-mashing kiss, and Arthur bit sharply before withdrawing again. "Then come and join us."

"You." Eames didn't seem inclined to complete this sentence, staring at Arthur breathlessly, his eyes heavy lidded, his hair remaining defiant despite the comb Arthur knew he had used on it earlier in the day. Arthur absolutely refused to let Eames use product in it, though, and was willing to do the same for Eames in return. They _were_ on a vacation, of sorts, after all. Even if it was enforced and with no end in clear sight.

"I'll make it up to you later," Arthur promised huskily, standing and offering his hands to help Eames to his feet.

"What's to stop me going into the bathroom and having a quick wank?" Eames asked as he allowed Arthur to pull him up.

Arthur raised his brows. "Absolutely nothing," he replied honestly, trying not to visualize this. Because he really didn't want to have to deal with a full blown hard-on as he followed Ariadne into the kitchen.

Eames gave him a speculative look then grinned widely, flashing those crooked front teeth that Arthur found altogether too endearing. "It would be no fun without you," he said, shaking his head. "Better to wait."

"Then go and pee, then join us in the kitchen," Arthur instructed. Then he went and joined Ariadne in the kitchen.

"You guys aren't half so subtle as you think you are," Ariadne informed Arthur crisply.

She had her head in the pantry, but Arthur arched a brow at her anyhow. "I wasn't aware we were trying to be subtle," he said dryly.

"Well, you may have a point." She turned, a box of crackers in her hand. "Arthur, what happened to your nose?"

He touched the bridge gingerly. It hadn't bruised, not really. Not enough to be noticeable, and Eames hadn't seemed to see anything different about it this morning. But Ariadne had sharp eyes.

"Nightmare," he replied shortly, and Ariadne gave him a mournful look.

"Well," she said after a moment. "He seems to be doing better today. And I mean a _lot_ better."

Arthur might have flushed. He might have gotten flustered. He could have gone all stoic and frozen his facial features.

He did none of those things. In point of fact, he could feel his lips curling in a ridiculously smug smirk. "He is, isn't he." It wasn't a question.

Ariadne's eyes were bright and she was smiling back at him, though more widely and less suggestively. "You two are good for each other," she told him. "And I'm not just saying that. I mean it. I really, really mean it."

Arthur hummed and nodded. He had nothing to add. She was correct, simple as that.

"He's not going to be completely better right away," he felt compelled to remind Ariadne, and she was already nodding before he finished the sentence.

"I know," she said. "But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate any progress that he makes. That you guys make."

"Of course."

Ariadne set the box she as holding on the counter and turned to fully face Arthur. Her dark eyes were narrow, her pale oval face set in a serious expression. "You're never going to leave him, are you."

"What? What sort of crazy question is that?" Arthur shot back, even though she hadn't spoken it as a question. "Of course I'm not--"

He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eyes, registered a small sound behind him, and turned.

He'd thought that he'd caught Eames by surprise before. He'd thought that he'd seen the man's face break into a bright glow of joy. But nothing could compare to the cascade of expressions that tumbled across Eames' features now.

"Arthur," was all Eames choked out, then he stumbled forward, falling against Arthur's chest, his arms locked tightly around his waist.

"I thought I'd already made myself clear," Arthur murmured into Eames' hair, but he said it with affection, not reprovingly. Because he understood. This thing between them was still new and tentative. It was one thing to make declarations of intent in the middle of the night, in bed, during or directly after sex. It was another to answer Ariadne's direct question with honesty and assurance.

"Well, you've certainly done now," Eames said, his voice indistinct as he spoke into Arthur's collar, his face buried in his shoulder and neck.

Arthur simply smiled and patted Eames' cowlick. Evidently Eames had needed to hear him say it, to someone who was not Eames. He wasn't surprised in the slightest to find that it hadn't cost him a thing to speak the words. Because he meant them and he knew that he meant them.

"You're welcome," Ariadne spoke up loudly behind them. It wasn't clear who she was talking to... but, then, it really didn't matter, did it?

Arthur decided he could let her get away with her smug grin as he turned, tugging Eames with him, into the kitchen.

"You can help make dinner too," he informed Eames, meeting and matching the man's wide smile. Then a thought occurred to him and he frowned. "You did wash your hands, didn't you?"

Ariadne laughed aloud.

[bluebells: end]


	7. What is a Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur might not think he had noticed, but Eames knew that the other man had very deliberately placed mirrors in every room of the flat. Even in the kitchen, where there was already a nice shiny toaster that Eames could, and did, examine his reflection in.

Arthur might not think he had noticed, but Eames knew that the other man had very deliberately placed mirrors in every room of the flat. Even in the kitchen, where there was already a nice shiny toaster that Eames could, and did, examine his reflection in.

It wasn't really necessary, hadn't really been necessary for weeks, but Eames appreciated the intent behind this particular decorative choice.

Eames didn't have a totem. He had never felt the need for a totem. But he did take a certain amount of comfort in attempting to forge and failing. As much as it hurt him to know that he was never going to be able to forge again, never be able to enter the dreamshare again, right now it was a comfort to try and _not_ succeed, to have proof whenever he wanted it that he was _not_ dreaming. That this comfortable, domesticated existence in a Paris flat with Arthur was reality.

Because sometimes, most of the time, it didn't feel as though it should be.

He was still trying to figure out what Arthur was doing here. Only not really, because they'd both danced around the subject enough that Eames was pretty sure they'd reached an agreement without ever having to say the words. It was still strange for him to think about it, Arthur being here by choice, being with _him_ by choice, and yet that was what was going on.

He couldn't doubt this, because to do so would have been doing Arthur a disservice. And yet he couldn't help wondering... sometimes... wondering _why_.

They'd been living together in Paris for very near on a month now. Just a couple of days shy, in fact. Every day was new, every day was a wonder, and every day Eames expected to wake and discover that it had all been a dream.

Well, no, that wasn't quite true. Not _every_ day. On the mornings that Arthur woke him slow and sleepy with sex on their minds and in their members... those days Eames came to reality easily, and with the lazy, pleasurable assurance that, yes, this was waking reality.

Unfortunately, that could not be every day.

So, okay, maybe it _was_ still a good thing that there were mirrors in every room in the flat. That didn't mean that Eames wanted to admit this, even to himself.

+++

"Arthur."

As it ever did, speaking Arthur's name immediately garnered Eames the man's full attention. He tried not to abuse this power that he had held over Arthur, honestly he did. Right now, though, he really did need all of Arthur's focus.

"Yeah?" Arthur looked up from his laptop, then set it on the coffee table before him, clearly recognizing that this was something important, that it was not going to be a quick conversation. Eames was both elated and terrified that Arthur could read him so well. Mostly, though, he was grateful.

It was early afternoon and Eames was standing before the balcony door. The curtains were open even though the glass door was still closed, and it was sunny outside. Eames liked to be able to look outside without giving up his illusion of safety. Just a week after his rescue he hadn't been able to do so much, but enough time had passed that he was able to do things like stand near the balcony, peer through the window.

Yes, it still reminded him of being thrown off of high buildings, smashed through glass panes, falling to his death, bleeding out.... But he was slowly leaving those memories behind. Was slowly becoming able to set the torture he had gone through out of his mind and focus on the now, on reality.

Well, most of the time.

"I'm ready to leave," Eames announced, and the way he wrapped his arms around himself as he said it might have put a lie to his words, but he didn't think that Arthur would call him on it.

He didn't. But Arthur, of course, being Arthur, _did_ demand more specificity.

"Leave this apartment? Or leave Paris?"

"Both," Eames answered, frowning out at the cheerful sunlight that made the balcony, the street below, the city look far too tempting. So far he hadn't managed to venture out onto the balcony, and he didn't think that was going to change today. Sure, he wanted to leave. But walking out onto the balcony or waltzing out the front door were different than making plans with Arthur and following through on them. Arthur would make sure they did things right, didn't do anything impulsive and _wrong_.

Tired of looking at a beautiful view that he couldn't go out and enjoy up close, Eames turned away and crossed to sit beside Arthur on the sofa instead. Here, the view was even more lovely and he could look, touch, indulge all he wanted. And he was _able_ to do so. There was certainly no lingering trauma attached to Arthur.

"What did you have in mind?" Arthur asked. His voice was perfectly calm and level, conversational, but his face and body had gone still and he watched Eames with a wary look in his eyes.

Eames regretted having put that look on his Arthur's face. So he clarified.

"I have good memories here. But I also have bad memories. I'm going a little stir crazy and I know it must be worse for you." Before Arthur could voice the protest Eames could _see_ on the man's lips, Eames continued. "I think a change of venue is called for. So long as you're still with me, I'll be able to make good memories anywhere. And if little Ariadne is waiting on us to visit Cobb, we shouldn't keep her from it any longer."

Arthur had gone from surprised to stunned to unaccountably pleased while Eames had been talking, and by the time Eames was done putting his argument forward, Arthur was outright smiling. Eames loved the way Arthur smiled. All crinkled eyes and deep dimples. It made him look younger and more approachable. And it was all for Eames. Ariadne sometimes got small smiles from Arthur but more often he gave her approving looks. These broad, bright smiles... they were all for Eames.

"You'd better not let her hear you call her that," Arthur warned him, but his attention seemed to be more on the rest of Eames' bold declaration. He nodded, his smile fading into a fond curve of his mouth, his dark eyes alight. "Eames, as long as you're up to it, I think that sounds like a wonderful idea."

"You do?"

"Yes, of course." Arthur reached forward, grabbing one of Eames' hands and holding it tightly in both of his own. "The fact that you're feeling strong enough to suggest this is a huge step in the right direction. And as much as I really like this apartment, I'm as ready to get out of it as you are."

"I'm sorry," Eames apologized automatically, then flinched at the small frown this brought to Arthur's face.

"I've told you," Arthur chided, though he did so gently. "Don't say that. I don't want to hear that. Not for something you can't help, and not for something I've made a choice myself to do. Okay?"

"Yes, you have," Eames replied, smiling sheepishly at Arthur. "And most of the time I even manage to remember."

Arthur's expression softened again and he was smiling. Eames felt like the world's largest sap when he felt an actual physical warmth swell in his chest. He wanted to resent Arthur for making him into such a huge, mushy, lovesick fool... but he couldn't. Because being with Arthur and making things work between them every single day made him so happy. Not just contented, but actively happy. And after what had happened to Eames, after the horrors he'd been subjected to by Harris, Taylor, and Poplin, he hadn't thought he would _ever_ feel happiness again.

He was so very glad that Arthur had stuck around to prove him wrong. And he was even more glad that for some reason, being with Eames made Arthur happy.

Part of it, of course, was the amazing sex. That certainly could be discounted as a cause.

But it would be trivializing their emotions, it would be insulting Arthur and the man's generosity, his kindness, and his honest emotions if Eames even pretended to himself for a moment that it was _only_ about the sex.

Eames had never been the sort to think himself to be in love, had never even liked to think of that word in terms of himself, and yet he was hard put to come up with any other way to describe how he felt about Arthur.... About how he and Arthur seemed to feel about one another.

Setting this thought aside, as he always did -- because if it was something a man was living, something a man was doing, it wasn't something that needed to be put into words -- he returned his attention to their conversation.

"Do you think Cobb would mind if we tagged along?"

Arthur arched one dark brow and the corner of his mouth crooked in that sharp, snarky look that Eames so adored seeing on his handsome face. "I don't really think it matters if he minds or not."

Eames grinned back then lowered his head slightly, casting his gaze down to their clasped hands. Arthur was his own man, not just Cobb's loyal guard dog, and Eames always liked to see reminders of that, to recognize all over again that Arthur had his own reasons to have some grudges against Cobb. Not anything big enough to wreck their friendship, of course. But Cobb had very nearly destroyed all of them in his quest to get home, and Arthur was just as aware of that fact as Eames was.

"Ariadne has already indicated she'll be thrilled if we join her," Arthur continued. "And Cobb never came out and _said_ he didn't want us any time I mentioned it in an email." He squeezed Eames' hand slightly. "What are you thinking? Do you want to move to the States? Or would it just be a visit, and we'd come back to this apartment afterward?"

Eames bit at his lower lip, thinking this over. He'd actually not considered all the details of his decision... but then, that was why he had his own personal point man, wasn't it? Arthur. Arthur was the one who was good with the details.

Still, Arthur needed Eames' input, since Eames was the one with all the issues. And once he'd thought about it for a moment, Eames knew what he wanted.

"I think we should visit Cobb with Ariadne, and see how things go," he said slowly, licking his lips. Arthur's thumb was tracing gently over the bumps of his knuckles, his gaze fixed firmly on Eames' face. "Keep the flat here, of course. And then... see... see how things go. I've... there's places.... We don't have to come back here... not right away. I've got things in Mombasa, if you're willing to take me. If I can stand to go. Right now I couldn't -- the noise and the crowds and the smell -- but maybe by the time we're done with Cobb.... Or. Or, do you have a place? Somewhere you call home? I assume you're not always nomadic, that you have somewhere to keep your wardrobe...."

Arthur chuckled, his dark brown eyes warm and creased in a smile even though his mouth was at ease. "Yes, I have a home, Eames. It's actually not too far from Cobb's place, if you don't want to stay at his house. Or we can insist on a guest room, make sure to cockblock him if he has any dishonorable intentions toward Ariadne, and then go to my place once she's left to come back to Paris."

Eames laughed aloud, delighted by this brilliant notion. Just a month ago he had felt as though he'd never be able to breathe again, much less speak, smile, laugh.... And yet Arthur had to power not only to make him feel safe, not only to make him feel as though there was someone who cared, but who also had the ability to make him lose himself in the moment enough that even humour had returned to him.

He had heard Arthur and Ariadne whispering, once, about how quickly and how well Eames had healed. Not that he didn't have a long road to go, and all three of them knew it, but he was far and away beyond the point any of them would have expected him to be. Eames knew that this wasn't due to any strength of will on his part, any natural resiliency. No, it was almost entirely because of Arthur. What Arthur had done for him, and what the man continued to do for him.

Arthur had not only saved his life, but he had also made that life worth living again. He had made it worth living _well_.

"Do we really think that Cobb harbours impure thoughts about our little Ariadne?" he queried, raising his brows. Arthur was still holding his hand, and it felt a little silly, but Eames did nothing to pull away. Arthur's fingers were warm and strong and sure around his, and the two of them were at home alone. There was no need to be embarrassed by a little handholding; literal as it may be.

Arthur shook his head, lines etched between his brows. "I can't tell. Guess we'll have to wait until we get there to find out."

Eames nodded absently, but he was already thinking ahead. To having to set foot outside the flat. To having to go to an airport and board a plane, surrounded by strangers. To seeing Cobb again and meeting his children.

He wasn't going to take back his decision, didn't regret making the choice to go. But he could feel his stomach twisting in anxiety, fear clawing at his lungs.

And then he hated himself for this weakness. Once he could have walked through a crowded airport, lifting a dozen wallets and seducing any women or men he chose along the way, then flown to any country he wished, making his way whether he knew the language or not.

Now he was reduced to huddling in an flat, hiding in Arthur's arms, uncertain of his ability to make it to the States with his sanity intact....

At least Arthur had found a grocer who was willing to deliver, for an added fee, so that Ariadne didn't have to continue to bring them food and supplies. She had sworn up and down that she didn't mind, but both the men felt guilty over it, Eames knew. And yet, even now, a month after Arthur had rescued him and brought him here, Eames couldn't bear to be left alone, Arthur didn't _dare_ to leave him alone, either. Eames had never tried to hurt himself, didn't have a gun to wave around anymore, but the terror... the terror.... When he was alone, when Arthur wasn't there to make him feel safe... it ate him up, it took him over, and even after all this time it was still there, waiting, lurking, ready to engulf him.

He knew this, even though Arthur made sure he was never alone, because Arthur _had_ left the flat, three times in the last month. For things that couldn't be delivered, ordered, or gotten by Ariadne.... And maybe just for a chance to get away for a bit, even though he always seemed edgy when he returned, just happy to be back as Eames was to have him back.

Of course, when he had taken these short trips, he hadn't left Eames _alone_. Ariadne had stayed with him, keeping him company. And Eames had tried to be good for her. Had tried not to dwell on how many ways a man could die, tried not to think about how many horrible things could happen to Arthur while he was out. Had tried not to be a huge baby about it and freak out and curl in a little ball. Ariadne wouldn't have deserved that. The poor girl had been a saint where the two of them were concerned. Eames wasn't surprised by this, but he _was_ in her debt, would be forever.

So for Ariadne he had sucked it up. Smiled, if admittedly in a somewhat strained way. Forced himself to hold up his end of the conversation. And both he and Ariadne had pretended not to notice when he was only able to breathe easily once Arthur had returned.

She had given him a sad smile and an extra hard hug before leaving all three times, though. And he hadn't been able to return the smile but he had hugged her just as tightly.

"Eames?"

The sound of Arthur's voice knocked him loose of his introspection, brought him back to the warm, sun-drenched room where they were sitting together on the sofa.

Just thinking about traveling, even though it had been his own idea, even though he knew it was the right thing to do, had made Eames feel tired. Wrung out, and it was only mid-afternoon. The knowledge of just how pathetic he was made him even more weary, and he bit at his lower lip, meeting Arthur's worried gaze with an expression that probably revealed far too much of how he was currently feeling.

"You okay?"

Eames was nodding before Arthur had finished asking the question. Because even though it was a lie, even though he wasn't, Arthur didn't need to be dealing with Eames' bleeding wankery right now. The man had already put up with so much....

"Are you up for a nap?" Arthur asked, and he actually made it sound as though it was a reasonable question, as though this wasn't complete pandering on his part.

Eames wanted to suggest that some fooling around would be better, wanted to pretend that he had something that he could offer in exchange for Arthur's solicitousness... but he couldn't. He was too wrung out, and Arthur didn't deserve anything less than his full attention, his full energy.

So... cuddling it was.

At least by this point Eames had come to admit that he was a man who could cuddle without feeling like a complete woman. He even enjoyed it, with Arthur, though he'd never have admitted to this out loud. Feeling Arthur strong and firm and warm and breathing against him, their arms locked around one another. It centered him in reality like nothing else he had discovered. Even more than trying and failing to forge.

"All right then," he said, giving Arthur a lopsided smile. As thought it were _him_ humoring Arthur and not the other way 'round.

Arthur smiled back at him, and his eyes were a little dark, a little pensive, but his face was warm with open, honest affection as he rose and helped Eames to his feet.

"Let's go."

+++

Ariadne was still attending school, so Eames wasn't sure how she managed to get the time off, but somehow she made it work; much as she had done when she had joined them for the Fischer job. She didn't bother Eames with any particulars, and he didn't ask. It was enough that she was excited and ready to go, and it seemed as though she was just as thrilled that they were going to be joining her as she was with the idea of seeing Cobb again.

Arthur made all the travel plans for both of them, doing it in the other room while Ariadne had Eames help her with meals in the kitchen. And so it was a total surprise to Eames when the day finally arrived, when they were all packed, that there came a knock on the door.

Eames half expected it to be Ariadne, even though he thought that they'd agreed to meet at the airport. Or perhaps a cab driver, though in Eames' past experience they tended to wait in the vehicle and lay on the horn.

What he _hadn't_ expected was that it would be Saito standing in the doorway, looking as upright and put together as always. The man's fashion sense was nothing short of phenomenal, and he wore his success just as well.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Eames," Saito greeted smoothly, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary between them, as though Saito had not seen him at his very worst, had not come to rescue him and then supplied Eames and Arthur with a flight to Paris and this very nice flat. "I am pleased to see you so well."

"It's good to see you too," Eames smiled in return, even though the expression stretched his face in an almost painful rictus. Not that Eames _wasn't_ pleased to see Saito; he genuinely was. Not that he wasn't grateful to the man for all that he had done for them, and for Eames in particular; he was. So very grateful.

It wasn't even a matter of pride. By this point Eames had no pride left. He was lucky he had any sense of self; and for that he felt he had Arthur to thank, in large part.

He was pained by the sight of Saito in part _because_ the man had seen him at his lowest point. But mostly because Eames was so dreadfully, irredeemably indebted to Saito. And with the way that he was now, he didn't see any way he was ever going to be able to pay back that debt.

He couldn't pay Saito back monetarily. Hell, he and Arthur were still living on the money they had _earned off of Saito_ for the Fischer job. And Eames had no idea when or if he was ever going to be able to work again, earn money that way. Arthur had spoken of the two of them working together, but he had been speaking optimistically. Right now Arthur didn't dare to let Eames out of his sight, and vice versa. Eames didn't know how Arthur thought he was going to be able to get back to the business of extraction; thankfully he didn't seem to be in any big hurry.

Eames certainly wouldn't be able to pay Saito back in any way involving money, forging, or other dreamshare work. Saito wasn't going to want sexual favors, even if Eames wasn't in a tacitly monogamous relationship with Arthur. He could only say thank you so many times without embarrassing both himself and Saito.

That was why it was so difficult for him to stand here, face to face with Saito, no matter how much he appreciated and respected the man.

"I am glad that I was able to catch you before you left Paris," Saito continued smoothly, as though he hadn't noticed Eames' discomfort. Eames knew that he most certainly had; he was just being painfully polite. "Although I am even more glad to find that you feel you can now travel."

Eames nodded, trying to fight the instinctive urge to bite his lower lip. Just because he was worn down to a shade of his former self, that didn't mean he had to go broadcasting this all over the goddamn place, even to a man he trusted more than most others. Saito might have proved himself when it had really counted, and Eames wasn't going to take that for granted, would be eternally grateful, but that didn't mean that he wanted to show him his bared belly. Eames might have no pride left, but he was still man enough to want to protect what was left to him.

"I have taken the liberty of assigning one of my personal jets to fly you to the States," Saito continued smoothly, as though Eames wasn't completely failing to keep up his side of the conversation. As though they were actually carrying on a conversation.

Then Eames caught up with what Saito had been saying. "Wait, you're--"

"I will be in Paris for at least a week," Saito explained, as though the offer was completely reasonable. "It is unfortunate that our schedules did not coincide, but we can make that work to our advantage. While I am staying here, there is no reason that you should not have the use of my plane and pilot."

Eames was struck speechless -- not that this was any great stretch since he's only managed a few words since Saito had entered the flat -- but Arthur was quick to step in and thank Saito with a warm smile.

"We appreciate your generosity," he said easily. As though this wasn't the answer to every prayer that Eames had not actually given voice to. As though this wasn't the only way they were going to be able to get to the States without Eames going a bit mad.

Now they wouldn't need to fly commercially. Even with first class seats, they still would have had to make their way through the airport and security and all that. With Saito's generous offer, it was going to be so much more bearable for Eames. And for Arthur, who would have been trying to keep Eames safe and sane. And for Ariadne, who would have had to watch both the men struggle.

"It is no big thing," Saito said, with an elegant wave of his hand, and he actually meant that, made it sound as though it were a simple fact. "I would be remiss if I did not make the offer."

Eames couldn't argue, because the offered favour was as much for Ariadne and Arthur as it was for him -- even though he was fairly certain that Saito had made it mainly for Eames' own sake -- and because it was a veritable godsend, but something in him felt as though he _should_ argue. As though he should reject this.

He told that part of himself to shut up and bugger off. Saito was doing this as much to spare Arthur and Ariadne having to deal with Eames' trauma as he was doing it for Eames. And the fact that it was because of _him_ , because of Eames, that this was necessary... well, that made Eames feel like shit, but it also meant that it wasn't on him to accept or refuse this favour.

Not that he had any intention of refusing.

Arthur and Saito were talking about something, but Eames wasn't able to focus on what it was. Instead, he made his way shakily into the kitchen and started the kettle. Because he was British, by God, and instead of having a meltdown he was going to _make some tea_.

Everything around him had narrowed down to essentials. Just Eames, the kettle, and the sink first, then the stovetop once he had the kettle filled. It was as though the rest of the world around him was dark as night, even though he knew full well that it was a lovely sunny day. He wasn't afraid of the darkness around him, but he couldn't break free of it and see things normally.

He was aware of the fact that out in the living room area, Arthur and Saito were still talking. Perhaps they were speaking in hushed tones about Eames and his recovery or lack thereof. He couldn't bring himself to feel any resentment, but he thought that he was embarrassed. He was supposed to man up and become a real human being again; not this sad, shallow shade.

Sometimes he wondered exactly why Arthur was putting up with him. When he couldn't even carry on a conversation with a friend. When the thought of going to the airport nearly had him pissing himself in fear.

Once he had been a real person. A real man. With a life and a profession to be proud of and _a bloody set of balls_. All of that was gone now, and he didn't know how to get them back.

He had no idea how long he stood there, staring at his reflection in the side of the kettle, his face distorted by the curve of the burnished metal but still his own. Slowly, the darkness at the edges of his senses faded, and then it was banished entirely as two strong, slim but wiry arms slid smoothly around his waist. He could feel Arthur's chin pressed hard and pointed on his shoulder, and that chased away most of the lingering darkness.

"You know, the water heats faster if you turn the burner on," Arthur murmured, taking away any sting the words might have carried with his teasing tone and the warm kiss he placed on the sharp point of Eames' jaw.

"Bugger," Eames sighed, slumping back into Arthur. Words rose to the forefront of his brain, terrible things like _"useless"_ and _"can't even make a proper cup of tea"_ , but he knew that it would hurt Arthur if he uttered them. Bad enough that Arthur probably had a strong suspicion that he was thinking them.

"We have to get going, anyway," Arthur told him gently, his mouth moving up to press in the space behind Eames' ear, palm spread heavy and comforting over his thumping heart. "Saito has a meeting and if we don't hurry, Ariadne's going to beat us to the airport. We don't want to make her wait, do we?"

"No," Eames replied. "Sorry," he apologized. He carefully poured the water from the kettle down the drain, then took a long look around the kitchen. He was going to miss it. He was going to miss the entire flat. And yet there was nothing in him that said that leaving was a bad idea. As panicked as the thought of travel made him, as trepidatious as he was at the prospect of facing Cobb and his children, he knew that so long as he was with Arthur, he was home.

"Let's go," he said, turning and giving Arthur as honest a smile as he could manage.

The smile that Arthur gave him in return went the rest of the way toward brightening his day. And the quick kiss that he stole got him out of the flat and on his way to the airport.

+++

"There you guys are!"

Ariadne _had_ beaten them aboard Saito's plane, but she didn't seem to mind having had to wait on them. She was curled in the huge, well beyond first class chair as comfortably and compactly as she had used to curl up on their loveseat. Hell, it was almost as large and definitely more cushy.

Eames felt a little wrench. If things went as planned, Ariadne would be returning to Paris without them, and wouldn't be visiting their flat in the afternoon and evenings anymore, because they wouldn't be there.

Well, no use borrowing trouble. They were all going to have to wait and see what happened. When he had been in the flat earlier in the week, Eames had felt a little claustrophobic. Now, it seemed like a warm and safe shelter. And, objectively, he knew that it was _both_ , and that this trip was good for him. That didn't make it less terrifying.

What made it considerably less terrifying was the fact that they were taking Saito's private jet. And Eames was still trying to come to grips with his feelings of guilt and gratitude and inadequacy where all of that was concerned.

"Have you been here long?" Arthur asked, eyeing the sketchbook in Ariadne's hands.

"Not really." She shook her head, smiling fondly as they seated themselves. "I knew Saito was going to be stopping by your place, so I figured I'd probably have a little wait. I didn't mind."

"He's a good man," Arthur said thoughtfully, reaching across Eames to grab his seatbelt. Eames wanted to protest, to claim that he could bloody well do it himself, but his hands were shaking so badly that he didn't know whether that was true. And it seemed to make Arthur feel better, being able to do something for him.

Eames managed to swallow down most of his shame at being a great big pussy by focusing on that last fact.

"When he wants to be," Ariadne replied cryptically. Eames thought that he kind of understood what she meant, though he'd have been hard pressed to put it into words.

Well, Saito was certainly ruthless when it came to business; Eames wouldn't have wanted to oppose him in any way, for any reason. As they had worked together on the Fischer job, Saito had loosened up, had become easier to get along with. Eames hadn't ever been able to forget that Saito was his employer, not a colleague, but he hadn't minded so much that he'd push his way into the inception. Even after he'd gotten himself shot early on and had become something of a liability.

Still, Eames couldn't be ungrateful. Not when Arthur had told him that it had been Saito's people who had tracked down Eames' captors. Not when Saito had shown up personally to rescue him. And not to mention the flat that Saito had gotten them, and the fact that he was now allowing them to take his personal jet to fly to the States.

Eames was relieved, as the plane taxied into position and took off, to discover that while he'd evidently become a great quaking ball of neuroses and phobias, flying wasn't one of them. At least the bastards who had taken it upon themselves to torture him in the dreamshare had never thought to take him up in a plane and toss him out. There were all kinds of interesting ways to kill a man that they hadn't taken advantage of. He hadn't been kidding when he had told Arthur that they lacked imagination. And wasn't Eames grateful for that fact.

The flight was a long one. Ariadne had her notebook and a novel to read. Arthur pulled out his laptop as soon as it was safe to do so. Eames had a book of crossword puzzles and word searches that Arthur had gotten him, as well as one of Arthur's paperbacks, but none of these held his attention and he... well, actually, he fell asleep before they were even two hours in the air.

Arthur woke him when there was food. Eames wasn't hungry but he ate anyway; it worried Arthur when he didn't. Arthur and Ariadne were making conversation, but Eames was still feeling foggy and didn't try to participate. He was beginning to second guess himself; wondering whether this wasn't a really terrible idea after all.... But it was a little late to change his mind now. And there was no way that he was letting little Ariadne go haring off to visit with Cobb unsupervised.

Once they were done eating, Eames leaned against Arthur, trying to see what he had been doing on his laptop. He saw a spreadsheet, a lot of numbers, and then... and then he fell asleep on Arthur's shoulder.

If he'd been awake, he would have been ashamed of himself. But he wasn't, which was kind of the point.

+++

When next Eames awoke, they were in America.

He had a momentary, horrible thought that Arthur might have slipped him something... but really he knew better. It was merely his body's overdue, inescapable reaction to all the nervousness he had been twisting himself up in for the last several days, in anticipation of this trip and their visit with the Cobb family.

Not to mention, he _trusted_ Arthur not to do anything like that. For one, Arthur wouldn't have sedated Eames. Period. Not after what Eames had gone through while under the effects of Somnacin. And not without Eames' explicit permission. Arthur was a gentleman like that. It was a matter of trust, and Eames trusted Arthur. Trusted Arthur more than he trusted his own brain these days. Anyway, he didn't feel any lingering effects, which sedating drugs other than Somnacin always left him with. And so all evidence pointed to it having been a natural sleep.

But he was awake now. And it was time to get moving. No more stalling; they were here.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asked him, calmly but with a faint undertone of anxiety that Eames only picked up on because he'd come to know Arthur so well in the past month. His hand was warm and solid around Eames' wrist, and Eames was glad that they'd both become so comfortable with one another, physically, because he felt he could really use the support.

He had to put a brave face on it, however, and so he smiled at Arthur as well as he could manage, hoping it didn't look too false. "I'm fine."

Arthur frowned at him, probably able to read Eames at least as well as Eames could read him, but Eames wasn't about to tell him the truth; that he was terrified of setting foot off this plane and making the arduous trip to Cobb's house.

Hell, Arthur could probably feel the pounding of his pulse in his wrist. Eames' smile twisted down at the corners and he leaned forward to rest his head against Arthur's shoulder, bone and muscle hard beneath his forehead.

"I'll be fine," he corrected himself. "Once we get there." As though the thought of seeing Cobb again and meeting his children for the first time wasn't just as stressful as the rest of this trip.

And he could only hope that he was speaking the truth.

+++

Cobb actually met them outside the plane, which shouldn't have surprised Eames, but somehow did. They were here to visit the man, after all. It only made a fair amount of sense that he would come to pick them up.

Seeing Cobb again wasn't so bad, in some ways, but in other ways it was worse than Eames had expected. He didn't feel any of the lingering anger he'd been working through directly after the Fischer job, like he'd thought that he might. After Cobb had very nearly gotten them all killed or consigned to limbo in blind pursuit of his own personal goals, and hadn't even bothered with so much as an apology for doing so. No, Eames was evidently over that.

But the look of... _pity_ on Cobb's face.

 _God_.

It wasn't sympathy; sympathy Eames could have handled. Sympathy was what filled Ariadne's eyes when she looked at him on a bad day. Sympathy would have been bearable. Sympathy was not what he saw on Cobb's face. Eames could tell that Cobb tried to hide it, but the man had never been half as good at disguising his emotions as he had thought -- at least where Eames was concerned -- and evidently life with his children, out of the business, had rendered him even more transparent.

As nice as it was seeing Cobb caring about someone other than himself, Eames didn't need the man's pity.

Didn't need it and did _not_ want it.

Cobb pulled Ariadne into a hug so tight her stylish boots lifted off the tarmac, but his enthusiasm didn't seem overly suspect, didn't really seem to be anything more than that of a man meeting a close friend for the first time in a while. All the more so when he followed this embrace up almost immediately with an equally engulfing hug for Arthur.

Eames felt something within him twist with barely contained jealousy, but he could hardly protest. Cobb had known Arthur first, and for longer than Eames had, after all. It didn't matter that Eames needed Arthur more.

Cobb did _not_ attempt to assault Eames in a like manner, for which Eames was infinitely grateful. Whether it was the man's own good sense or whether he had been warned off by Arthur and Ariadne, all he did was offer Eames his hand and give it a warm but brief squeeze when Eames reluctantly returned the gesture.

"It's great to have you here," Cobb said, and he may have been speaking the words to all of them, but it was Eames that his eyes were on as he said it, and Eames couldn't read any lie in the piercing blue, or the soft smile on Cobb's lips.

"I--" he said, but that was as far as he got, because the words got caught in his mind, the same way his tongue got caught in his teeth. He was suddenly dead certain that this was the worst possible idea, that he shouldn't be here, that he and Arthur should never have left their cozy flat in Paris.... And yet he couldn't _say_ any of that. Not to Cobb, when he had that open expression on his face. Not to Arthur, who had already given up so much for Eames. Nor to Ariadne, who had invited them along because she'd actually _wanted_ them to visit Cobb with her.

"We're glad to be here," Arthur said, and Eames realized that since Cobb had released him from that brief hug, Arthur had come to stand right next to him, had, in fact, his hand resting at the small of Eames' back. Not cuddling him in public, in front of Cobb, but giving him _something_ , giving him the support he needed.

"We should get to the house," Cobb said, mercifully changing the subject. Arthur's hand was warm and comforting where it pressed against Eames' spine, and for the first time Eames thought to wonder if Cobb _knew_ about the two of them. He would have assumed that Ariadne would have told him even if Arthur hadn't, but perhaps they hadn't considered it to be Cobb's business.

Well, without asking there was no way of knowing -- at least not right now -- and Eames wasn't about to ask.

"You look good," Ariadne told Cobb as the four of them strode toward Cobb's SUV, and both Arthur and Eames were watchful, keeping a close eye on how this interaction was going to go. Ariadne was perfectly aware of this, sharp girl that she was, but she ignored them for the moment. "This family life is definitely agreeing with you."

"Thanks," Cobb said, with a grin that looked far more boyish now that his default expression wasn't a determined scowl. "It's nice not living on the run, afraid of winding up in jail for the rest of my life." He managed to say this with good humour, without a trace of bitterness. "You look great too. You as well, Arthur, Eames," he shot over his shoulder.

Eames knew _that_ was a bald faced lie. Oh, sure, Arthur looked lovely as always. More so, in fact, because he'd become very well rested while caring for Eames the past month, and Eames had finally gotten him to give over pomading his hair entirely, even during their trip to visit Cobb. He still dressed as nicely as he ever had, but there was a looseness to his joints, a relaxing of his spine. He was still the hard-core, sharp, professional point man had always been -- or at least had been as long as Eames had known him. He was just... on break. For the moment. And it agreed with him.

Eames, on the other hand... Eames had been reduced to a shadow of his former self. He'd lost so much weight that he could almost have worn Arthur's clothing, had, in fact, had to replace most of his trousers and more than a few of his shirts. His hair was simply unmanageable, and there was nothing to be done about the bruised hollows around his eyes. He kept his face clean-shaven because he knew that Arthur preferred it, and his features were all the sharper for it; his cheekbones and jaw even more pronounced than they had used to be.

Withdrawal from Somnacin had turned out to be a lot worse than either Eames or Arthur had expected. It wasn't that it was addictive -- it was more that entering the dreamshare was addictive, and Eames _couldn't_ do that anymore -- but rather, it was that the lack of use meant that Eames' natural dreams were beginning to come seeping through the cracks of his consciousness.

And, hardly surprisingly, these were not so much dreams as they were nightmares. Horrible, vivid, painful nightmares.

To the best of Eames' knowledge, Arthur hadn't gone under into the dreamshare since coming to rescue Eames two levels down a month ago. And yet _he_ was not plagued with bad dreams. At least, not that Eames was aware of. He certainly hoped that Arthur wasn't keeping anything like that from him. He didn't think the other man could have, not the way they curled around one another in bed every night.

Then again, Arthur's subconscious wasn't working through the tortures that Eames' mind was attempting to work through. Eames tried to forget, he tried to ignore, he tried to move on, and yet the truth of the matter was that those things had been done to him, and he wasn't going to just get over it. As often as Arthur told him this, Eames hated to admit that it was his reality now. It was, though. Arthur wasn't wrong. Much as they both might wish that he were.

So far Eames hadn't hurt Arthur, flailing in the grasp of his night terrors. This was due in large part to the fact of Arthur's quick reflexes. It might also help that they slept pressed so closely together; when Eames flailed, Arthur was right there, inside the range of his movement.

Speaking of closeness, now that they were walking safely behind Cobb, Arthur's arm slid all the way around Eames' waist. Eames wasn't foolish enough to mistake this for Arthur trying to hide their... their relationship from Cobb. Arthur wasn't that self conscious, that insecure. Eames knew that Arthur, to be honest, didn't _care_ that much about what Cobb thought.

No, the reason that he was doing this surreptitiously, so to speak, was all for Eames, in an attempt to spare his pride. Not that Eames had any pride left, as already noted. To spare him further humiliation, then.

It wasn't as though Eames was going to complain about this.

But, Lord, how he wished it was not necessary. Any of it.

Well, perhaps the part where Arthur touched him, willingly and often. But none of the rest of it.

"Where are the kids?" Arthur asked Cobb as they all loaded their luggage into the vehicle. So far there was no sign of them; Eames was a little surprised, as he would have expected Cobb to be unwilling to let his sprogs out of his sight.

 _Considering all that he put the whole team through in order to get back to them,_ Eames tried to banish the thought from his mind. Because he was Cobb's guest for the nonce, and resentment would have been unbecoming. And, honestly, he didn't hold what Cobb had done against him. Much.

Okay, maybe a little more than he had initially thought. But, really, not a lot.

"They're at home," Cobb answered, sliding behind the wheel. Ariadne took the passenger seat, which left Arthur and Eames the back, but none of them had any problems with this. It seemed the only natural way for them all to shake out, and this way Arthur didn't have to be restrained in how he touched Eames. "There's a nice teenage girl who lives next door, who watches them when I need her to. Which isn't often. Phillipa is responsible enough that I could almost leave them home alone; not that I ever would."

"Of course not," Ariadne demurred, and Eames was willing to bet that she had been self reliant, self assured, and self confident when she had been five years old. He wondered if Phillipa was the same, or if Cobb was seeing things that weren't there. She _was_ only five, after all.

Well, he would have to hold out judgment until he met Cobb's children himself. Every father ought to view his offspring through rose-tinted blinkers, in Eames' opinion. His own had been a wretched exception to this generalization, but Cobb clearly cared far more about his babies than Eames' father had ever cared about him. Whatever his other failings, one could never fault Cobb for being a poor father. Absentee, true, for two years, but not by choice. Grief-ridden, but with good cause. Still, even with all his other flaws, no one could ever doubt that Cobb loved his kids.

Eames realized that he was spending far more time thinking about this than could be considered necessary by any stretch of the imagination. Ariadne and Cobb were conversing in the front of the SUV, talking about something cute James had done, Eames thought. But he needed something to distract him. From the fact that they were in the States. From the fact that they were going to be meeting Cobb's kids and staying in his house an indeterminate amount of time. From the fact that they were zipping down the freeway, other cars full of other people all around them, going faster than Eames felt was safe, full of crazed American drivers....

And there, again, he was being a great pussy. Fast cars had never bothered him before. Before.... Before he'd been run over, crushed between two vehicles, thrown out of moving trucks.... The men who had held him and tortured him, killed him over and over, they had been lacking imagination. But that didn't mean that they hadn't come up with a wide variety of ways to hurt and kill him.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asked him, and his breath was warm on Eames' cheek, he was that close. He had a hand on Eames' thigh, hot and firm through the material of his trousers, reassuringly real and _there_. Eames allowed himself a moment to soak in the comfort that this brought him, while he considered whether or not to answer honestly.

Then again, his silence was an answer in and of itself. Arthur sighed and shifted to wrap his arm around Eames again, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the line of his jaw.

"We can take a nap when we get there," Arthur told him . And he managed to sound infuriatingly matter of fact about it; something that still boggled Eames every time he did it.

"That would hardly be sociable," he mumbled back, leaning into Arthur's lean body with no hesitation or shame. He needed something to take his mind off of memories that were dreams and dreams that had become memories. Ariadne already knew about the two of them and if Cobb didn't, he would soon enough. So long as Arthur didn't mind, neither did Eames. "And we did come to keep an eye on Ariadne," he continued doggedly.

"Maybe she'll want a nap as well," Arthur mused, his lips now pressing against Eames' temple, seeing as he had evidently slipped down to rest against Arthur's shoulder. "It was a long flight."

"Mm. Maybe."

Right now all he could focus on was how warm Arthur was, how lovely it felt to lie against him and close his eyes. He wasn't going to sleep again, he resolved, especially not considering that he had lost almost the entire flight to slumber....

So it was almost amusing when he actually did nod off. Except for the part where it wasn't funny at all.

+++

The first thing Cobb did when they reached the house was introduce them to his children. As it should be, and as Eames had actually desired. He could admit to the fact that he was curious.

Because Eames might have done it for the challenge, to prove to Arthur that he could, and for the money, and Saito might have conceived it in order to keep from being bought out by the Fischer Morrow conglomerate, but the long and short of it was that the inception job had happened _because of Phillipa and James Cobb_. If their father had not been so determined to get home to them he wouldn't have allowed Saito to bribe him. And if Cobb hadn't been so personally invested, hadn't gathered the best and the brightest around himself, the rest of them would not have become involved.

Eames was pleased to discover that he quite _liked_ Cobb's two younglings, didn't begrudge them what their father had put him through in order to get back to them. Once they got past the initial "getting to know you" stage, that was.

James jumped into Arthur's arms with an ear-piercing squeal of delight, as soon as they were inside. Phillipa was more restrained, but she did give Arthur a solid hug about the waist, as far up as she could reach.

They were smaller than Eames had been expecting, which was a little bit ridiculous on his part, he supposed. Both children were golden-haired, obviously taking more after their father than their mother. James was in need of a good trim, Eames thought, but the so was he, so he couldn't really pass judgment. Eames had to admit that they were beautiful children, though not worth going to limbo for.

Well, not in Eames' opinion, but then they weren't his kids. Obviously Cobb had felt differently.

Uncle Arthur was clearly a favourite, but when it came time to introduce Ariadne and Eames, James was suddenly shy. Phillipa was a right little lady, even going so far as to shake both Ariadne and Eames' hands. Her eyes were bright and intelligent, and Eames appreciated the scrutinizing once-over that she gave both of the strangers, her eyes narrowing so that she looked like a miniature version of her father, before she smiled in true friendliness.

Evidently they had passed the initial hurdle.

"Just call me Ariadne," the girl in question instructed, and Cobb's kids actually made her look _tall_ , petite creature that she was. "I'm no one's aunt."

"All right," Phillipa agreed placidly, as James hid his face in his father's collar. Then she turned her piercing gaze on Eames. "Are you Uncle Eames?"

"If it pleases you," he replied, trying to keep his voice even. Dealing with kids who barely reached his belt loops shouldn't be this difficult, but he was fearful of making a misstep, of doing something to upset the children and alienate Cobb, disappoint Ariadne, distress Arthur....

Phillipa stared at him for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether she should take him seriously or whether she was being humored. He met her gaze evenly, a little surprised by how easy it was. She had blue eyes, though perhaps with a touch of green, more like her mother's, and he could see the gears working away, could _see_ how intelligent she was.

"Well, he's Uncle Arthur, so you must be Uncle Eames," she finally decided, tilting her head, blonde pigtails bobbing over her shoulders. Then she smiled up at him, a bit shy but secure in her own home. "Do you want to come and look at the dollhouse Dad built for me?"

Eames felt something in him warm at this unexpected acceptance. And, even as Cobb murmured, "Now, Phillipa," he discovered that, unaccountably, he _was_ interested in seeing this dollhouse.

"I would like that very much," he replied honestly, and they smiled at one another.

"I want to come too!" James squeaked, trying to wriggle out of his father's arms as Phillipa took Eames' hand was an easy familiarity. And that last didn't bother Eames, even though he hadn't known her past a few minutes of new acquaintance. Because the children were "safe". They weren't going to hurt him, couldn't if they'd wanted to, and he already knew that they wouldn't _want_ to.

"Are you sure?" Arthur was asking anxiously, his brow creased in a deep frown. Eames wanted to erase that look from his face forever, wished that he wasn't so bleeding damaged that Arthur felt he had to be worried over him like this. Going off with Cobb's children might well be a good start. It was something that he _could do_ , something he felt confident about.

"I'll be fine," he said, and this time he meant it. "You adults go off and talk or what have you."

Phillipa giggled at this, and then set off determinedly down the hallway. And since his hand was still locked in hers, Eames had no choice but to go with. James gave a whoop of excitement -- probably over having guests in the house, and just as likely in order to bolster his own courage as he left the safety of his Dad's arms -- and raced ahead of them.

"We'll get the luggage squared and be in the kitchen," Cobb called after them. "Phillipa, don't wear Uncle Eames out. If he gets tired, you bring him back to Uncle Arthur, okay?"

"Yes, Daddy!" she called back, then slanted an impish grin up at Eames. "But you're not tired yet, are you?"

"No, love, I'm not," he replied, smiling back. And it wasn't at all difficult. Was, in fact, the easiest thing in the world.

Perhaps he had made the right decision in coming here after all.

+++

Eames had to admit that he had been a little nervous about having to deal with Cobb's kids, but it turned out that he needn't have worried. In fact, it was easier dealing with his kids than dealing with Cobb himself.

This wasn't necessarily Cobb's fault. He was awkward and uncomfortable, didn't seem to know how to act around Eames. Eames was virtually sure that Arthur had told Cobb not to treat him any differently than normal, but he also knew, they all knew, that there was no way for Cobb to do this. Hell, Arthur spent the most time with Eames, and even he still sometimes treated Eames as though he were fragile, made of glass.

To be fair, sometimes Eames felt as though he _were_ made of glass, as though he would shatter to pieces if handled the wrong way. And Eames himself didn't even know what that wrong way might be. Fortunately for him, Arthur seemed to know better than he did, knew the _right_ ways to handle him. As did Ariadne, most of the time. Cobb... well, not so much. Of course, Eames had only just arrived here this afternoon.

The children, they didn't know any better. And that was the most refreshing thing of all. They had no preconceived notions of what "Uncle Eames" was _supposed_ to be like. As far as they both knew, he had always been this quiet, passive thing that flinched at loud noises and sudden movements.

They hadn't met him when he had still been a real man.

Phillipa picked up on his frailties almost immediately, and she handled him with care, with the finely developed instincts of an older sister who had been left parentless for two whole years while very young, her brother even younger. It wasn't anything she consciously did, and that was why it didn't make Eames cringe. She toned down her play, softened her voice, touched him often in a steady, reassuring way, and did her best to rein in her younger brother.

James, on the other hand, was only three, nearly four, and such complicated interactions were beyond his ken. He delighted in showing Eames his toys, instructing him on their use, and trying to steal his attention away from his sister. Eventually he calmed, settling to sit in Eames' lap, sucking a thumb and watching quietly as Phillipa rearranged all the furnishings in the dollhouse, room by room, with a care and deliberation that surprised Eames a little, considering her age. She kept up a running commentary while she did so, smiling over at Eames often and asking his advice, and the time passed both quickly and pleasantly.

Eames was almost able to forget that the other adults were almost certainly collected in the kitchen and talking about him. He hoped that they had found other subjects, more interesting and less disheartening. But he was realistic, and he knew that it was more likely than not that he was the topic under discussion.

He had quite lost track of the passage of time when the playroom door cracked open and Cobb stuck his head in. His eyes were wider than Eames was used to seeing and he looked unusually trepidatious, for him. Eames wondered in mild amusement what exactly he had been expecting to see; that his children had eaten Eames alive?

"Hey, guys," Cobb said, and that sounded like a _daddy_ voice to Eames. He had only ever worked with Cobb professionally and wasn't used to seeing this side of him. Of course, he was pretty sure that now this was the _only_ side of Cobb. And he approved. "We're about to get dinner going. Phillipa, I want you to help me, okay? Uncle Eames needs to clean up and unpack." His blue eyes tracked over Eames. He thought that he saw something like relief in them. That was better, at least, than the pity. "And maybe get some rest. Okay?"

"Okay, Dad," both the kids chorused. Phillipa got to her feet readily enough, while James held his arms out to Cobb, wordlessly asking to be picked up.

Cobb bent and obliged as Arthur appeared in the doorway behind him, his expression more quizzical than anything else. Arthur smiled at Eames as he took in the tableau before him, but his eyes were softer and warmer than Eames was used to seeing them.

"Take your time," Cobb instructed, propping James easily on one hip and herding Phillipa before him. "We're going to be a while. I'll get you when the food is ready."

Arthur nodded absently, but his attention was pretty firmly fixed on Eames, who was still sitting crosslegged on the floor. There were toys scattered about, and a lovely sunlit day outside the window. The room was full of good feelings and happy memories, but it did smell a bit of children, and Eames wouldn't mind leaving it. Especially if it got him some private time with Arthur. That was definitely a plan he could get behind.

Arthur reached down and gave him a hand up, easily, casually, as though Eames didn't actually kind of need it in order to get back to his feet.

"I wouldn't have thought that you would be good with kids," Arthur murmured, still smiling at Eames as he guided him out of the room and down a wood-lined hallway. Eames trusted that they were headed toward the bedroom they would be staying in while they were here.

He shook his head, smiling a bit ruefully himself. "I wasn't. Before. I didn't think that I would be now, but...."

"But you certainly are," Arthur replied, and his arm was solid and strong around Eames waist once again. "I think Ariadne is jealous of how easily you charmed them."

"Well, really, children _are_ easy enough." Eames shook his head a little. "You just need to treat them like adults while never forgetting that they're _nothing like_ adults. They're creatures of emotion, not logic. And fairness. Children are very into the idea of fairness. It hasn't yet been beaten out of them by the universe."

Arthur was nodding, his expression thoughtful and maybe a little sad. Over how unfair the universe had been to the two of them, perhaps. And to Cobb and Mal, which affected the children in question more.

"They need your full attention. All they really want is someone to watch them do amazing things and to exclaim over how amazing they are," Eames continued. If this was an oversimplification, and it sort of was, that didn't make it untrue. "It's always better if you can mean it, of course, and Cobb has some lovely offspring."

Arthur as nodding. "I'll agree with that." He opened the door to what was presumably their room, and Eames was gratified to see that it had a nice king size bed, and that there were thick curtains on the windows, which had already been drawn. He suspected Arthur had done this, seeing as their luggage was already in place, because Arthur knew that while the house was situated on some very beautiful property, far from any neighbors, Eames would feel safer closed in, shut away from the world. At least until he got used to the room, used to being here.

On the plus side, while this place was not their familiar flat in Paris, it was elegant and exquisitely designed -- no doubt both Cobb and Mal had had a hand in this -- which meant that it was _nothing_ like any of the scenarios that Eames' captors had dragged him into, tortured and killed him in. They'd always put him in dungeons, or decaying urban settings. And _that_ meant that he was far less likely to be triggered in any way, for any reason.

"This is nice," he remarked, feeling like he should say something, even though the lovely house and property really had nothing to do with Arthur, other than the fact that he was Cobb's friend.

Instead of replying, Arthur slid his arms around Eames, pulling him close then kissing him gently and sweetly, almost chastely.

"What was that for?" Eames wanted to know when his lips were free once more, though Arthur remained pressed close to him, chest to chest, hips to hips, chin to chin. "Not that I'm complaining, mind," he hastened to add, lest Arthur come off with the wrong idea.

"Because you're here," Arthur replied, close enough that his words broke hot and moist over Eames' tingling lips. His eyes were closed, and his dimples were in play even though he was not exactly smiling. He looked at peace, though, content, and Eames loved seeing him that way. "Because you were willing to come, you were ready to leave the apartment, because you suggested this and then proved that you could do it, proved that it wasn't a bad decision."

"Mm." Eames wasn't sure what reply he could make to that, but before he could think of anything, something else struck his consciousness. He tipped his head to the side. "Is that a shower I hear?"

"It is," Arthur confirmed, opening his eyes, but then leaning in and nuzzling Eames' cheek, too close for eye contact. "We're sharing a bathroom with Ariadne. Her room is on the other side of it."

"Oh." Eames stuck out his lower lip, mulling over this fact. "Well, that might make shower sex awkward."

Arthur laughed in his ear, following this heated gust up with a lazy curl of his tongue around the lobe, causing a shiver of ticklish arousal to catch and tug at Eames' groin. He was too worn out and stressed to get in the mood properly, and Ariadne was just to the other side of the door, but he was definitely appreciative of the way that Arthur could play his body like a well-known, well-loved instrument.

"We'll see what we can work out," Arthur promised, tugging Eames over to the bed. They both removed their shoes and curled up together atop the bedspread, Arthur's arms around Eames, his head on Arthur's shoulder. Eames let out a long, quivering breath, relaxing into the warmth and reality of Arthur's body. Relaxing into the feeling of complete and utter _safety_.

"Cobb says his natural dreams are coming back too," Arthur told Eames quietly, his fingers carding through his hair in soothing strokes. "Some of them are nightmares, though he naturally doesn't have as many bad memories to draw from as you do."

Eames mulled that over for a moment. "Perhaps not," he finally said. "But the man's wife committed suicide right in front of him, and it was his fault, even if only indirectly, even though he didn't mean for it to happen. At least what I went through was only in the dreamshare, not reality."

"Maybe," Arthur allowed, and his hand never faltered or paused. "But in the dreamshare it _felt_ real. Your brain felt the pain, the fear, the deaths...."

"Most of the time I knew I was dreaming, though," Eames argued. "I only lost track of reality late in the game, after they'd been at it for a while. So even though the pain _felt_ real, I knew on some level that it wasn't."

They might have continued this conversation -- not an argument, just a discussion -- for a longer period of time, but just then there came a knock on the door. Not the main door to the room, but the bathroom door.

"Are you guys decent in there?" Ariadne called through the wood.

"Never, darling," Eames called back, and he could feel Arthur chuckling beneath his draped body.

Evidently taking this as permission, Ariadne entered the room. She was flushed a pretty pink from the shower, her hair still wet, and she was wearing fresh clothing. Eames recognized the fact that he was still in his travel clothes, stale with fear sweat, but he couldn't bring himself to mind, not when he and Arthur were wrapped up in one another as they were.

Ariadne stepped over to the bed, perching on the edge of the mattress. "The shower is free now, you guys," she told them, somewhat unnecessarily. "I've left my shampoo and soap in there; hope you don't mind. It's not taking up much room, and it's a big shower stall; big enough for two grown men." She grinned, teeth white and dark brown eyes flashing. "It's as though Cobb had you two in mind when he designed it."

Arthur choked a little and Eames found he was grinning broadly in response to Ariadne's good humour. "You _are_ a saucy little wench," he remarked mildly. "And for the record, Cobb hadn't yet met me when he designed this house."

"Besides, I think Mal designed the bathrooms," Arthur added evenly. "So I think the roomy shower stalls were her idea."

Ariadne nodded, her expression thoughtful, but none of them wanted to talk about Mal right now. Possibly not ever. They'd gotten their fill of her during the Fischer job, when Cobb's projection of her had very nearly mucked everything up. Eames still wondered about Cobb's subconscious, about whether he really had been so set on reaching his children, because his projection of Mal had done everything in her power to sabotage the job.

"I'm glad that you both came with me," Ariadne told them, reaching forward and squeezing Eames' nearer shoulder for a moment. "I wasn't sure you'd ever be able to, and I didn't mind waiting, but I didn't want to come without you."

"We're glad to be here," Arthur said mildly, as though it weren't a huge deal, as though it hadn't been riding entirely on Eames. His fingers were still twined in Eames' hair, his hand resting on his skull, and he didn't seem inclined to shift any time soon. Not that Ariadne hadn't already seen them in varying stages of cuddling, back in Paris.

Hell, Eames half suspected that she might get off on the idea of them together; certainly her cheeky words regarding the shower seemed to point to this possibility. Otherwise he'd have expected her to warn them off of getting their rocks off in the stall that she had to share.

This thought didn't horrify Eames to the depths of his soul or anything... but it _was_ a bit awkward. Especially since he couldn't be sure it was true; was entirely possibly that it was only his own perverse mind making him think it might be.

Ariadne yawned and stretched. "I'm going to wander out and see if Cobb needs any help with dinner," she said. She looked tired but happy, and Eames was glad that they'd finally made it here. Even though he was still a little worried about the whole Cobb and Ariadne possibility.

"Let us know when it's ready," Arthur said, making absolutely no move to rise off the bed. Of course, that might have been a bit difficult for him to manage with Eames draped over top of him.

She made a sound of assent and left the room, closing the door quietly behind herself.

"Are you up for showering?" Arthur asked once she was gone.

Eames gave the question serious consideration. "Yes," he decided. "But, contrary to Ariadne's hints, I doubt I'm really up for anything else."

Arthur grinned, almost more of a grimace, and levered them both up off the mattress. Eames sometimes forgot how strong his Arthur was. Well, and it didn't hurt that he had lost so much bulk himself.

"I don't think I have the energy for that, either," Arthur said, and he was handling the subject with his usual poise and aplomb. Eames loved him even more for this.

"Do you think she--"

"No," Arthur replied immediately, before Eames could finish that sentence. And he might have lost a little of his calm, but it just made Eames want to _kiss_ him. Arthur shook his head firmly, his loose hair tumbling about his forehead. "I don't want to think about it."

"Come now, Arthur," Eames drawled, leaning against the sturdy bedpost as Arthur collected a change of clothing for them. He folded his arms and tried to ignore the fact that weariness was hitting him hard and he actually _had_ to lean in order to remain on his feet. "I know that you have found darling little Ariadne to be desirable in the past. You stole a kiss from her during the Fischer job, after all."

Arthur's mouth twisted as he straightened. "I should never have told you that." He sounded more fond and exasperated than annoyed or defensive, thankfully. He turned bright eyes on Eames, and while he was beautiful, he looked a little worn down as well. It must be exhausting, worrying nonstop about Eames, he thought with more than a little bitterness. All internally directed, of course. Not at Arthur. Never at Arthur.

"Do you really want to be having this conversation in Cobb's house?" Arthur asked, one brow rising.

Eames sighed and shook his head. "You do have a point." He wasn't sure whether Arthur meant the kiss, the attraction, or the possibility of Ariadne using the two of them as fantasy fodder. And it didn't really matter. Because he would be just as happy shutting the hell up, getting into a nice hot shower with Arthur, and then getting into some clean clothes and having dinner with Cobb, his kids, and Ariadne.

Arthur crossed and kissed him tenderly, before sliding his free arm around Eames' waist and guiding him to the bathroom. And he didn't say anything further....

But, then again, he didn't need to.

+++

Eames hated to admit it, but he very nearly fell asleep in the shower. This seemed to be the theme of the day, to his distress and embarrassment, but at least this time he managed to stay awake.

Actually, he gave some serious thought while they were _entering_ the shower stall to going to his knees and sucking Arthur off. Perhaps in apology for bringing up uncomfortable subjects. Perhaps simply because he _wanted_ to. But when he was under the hot water, surrounded by steam and Arthur's arms, sleepiness overtook him, and all thoughts of sex drained out of his mind.

He wanted to tell Arthur how happy being with him made him feel, but it would have sounded silly, and there was still that internal filter preventing him. So he simply stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Arthur's slim waist and resting his forehead on his shoulder. It felt good; most especially when Arthur held him back, as firmly yet tenderly as he could have wanted.

"I.... You...." He tried to find the words anyway, because he thought that Arthur deserved to hear them, but in the end all he said was, "Thank you," turning his face toward Arthur, so that their mouths could slide together, soft and sweet. And even that made him feel like a huge sap, but better that than feeling like a pussy.

Arthur squeezed him lightly then reached for the soap. Eames really was a bit surprised that he didn't fall asleep before the shower was done, but once it was over, once they had stepped out of the stall and dried off and gotten dressed, he felt more wakeful and world's better. He hadn't realized how much of a difference it was going to make.

He held still while Arthur combed his hair, even though it made him feel like a child, like he was the same age as James. Then he watched quietly as Arthur ran the comb through his own hair, slicking it back. He didn't mind. It would fall forward as it dried. And it was kind of intriguing, seeing the Arthur he had first met, while knowing that before long he would have back the Arthur that was _his_.

His own hair was hopeless, he knew. But Arthur liked it as it was. And while he preferred to keep it either shorter or more restrained, Eames didn't feel strongly enough about the matter to say anything. It was a matter of compromise, as far as he was concerned. Arthur was kind enough to leave off the pomade for Eames, at least for now, and so the least he could do in return was wear his hair the way that Arthur liked.

Cobb popped his head into the room as Eames was sitting on the bed, lacing his shoes, and Arthur was putting the last of their clothing in the dresser drawers. "Are you guys presentable?"

"What is it with you and Ariadne?" Arthur asked, exasperated, turning and pinning Cobb with a fierce but affectionate look. "Do you guys really think we're going to be making it like minks when your children are in the house and our door isn't locked?"

Eames was treated to the absolute delight of seeing Dominic Cobb turn bright red. He was so amused by this fact that he wasn't even bothered by Arthur's bluntness; not that he would have really been anyhow. If Arthur didn't mind saying it, Eames didn't mind him saying it. Now whether or not Cobb wanted to _hear_ it... that was another matter entirely.

"I--" Cobb blinked rapidly and licked his lips. "Just make sure that you do," he said, his voice sounding a little strangled. "Lock the door, that is." He made to duck out, then recalled why he had bothered them in the first place. "Oh, and dinner is ready."

Then the door was clicking shut behind him and Arthur shot Eames a sharp, predatory smile, his eyes flashing with amusement. "I almost feel bad."

Eames smiled back, though he thought his own expression was more lazy and indolent. "Don't," he instructed, leaning back on the bed, both shoes on, both feet planted on the floor. Arthur looked edible and Cobb had as good as given them permission to have sex in his home....

Arthur's grin turned into a smirk and he strode across the room, looming over Eames but not leaning down, not touching him. There was as much arousal in his face as Eames was feeling, but his mouth twisted ruefully. "We have to go and join them," he said, holding a hand down to Eames. "Be good houseguests. And we have to keep an eye on Cobb and Ariadne."

"Yes, yes," Eames sighed, grasping Arthur's hand and allowing the other man to tug him up off the bed. Already the urge was fading; not gone, never gone, but diffused into the sleepiness and contentment he was feeling. They weren't in their cozy flat, but it felt good to be here with Arthur. Good to know that they were welcome.

Even if Cobb had seemed to regret his invitation for a moment there, when he had been imitating a tomato. Eames chuckled at the memory and Arthur was still smirking, and then they kissed once more before heading out to be sociable.

Eames was going to be good, honestly. If only because he didn't really have the energy for anything else.

+++

By the end of dinner, Eames was pretty sure that he and Arthur needn't be too concerned about Cobb and Ariadne. Not that it was actually any of their business. She hadn't seemed to mind them _making_ it their business, however. And Cob... well, Cobb was either oblivious, or didn't think their watchfulness was worth his notice.

Before, Eames would have put money on it being the former. Now, he wasn't so certain. There was a new sharpness to Cobb. He was centered, in a way he hadn't been before. And he seemed to be completely fulfilled, being here at home with his children.

That went a long way toward setting Eames' mind at ease, after the fiasco of the Fischer job. Cobb had taken mad chances -- even unaware of the fact of Robert's subconscious being militarized, it had been a gamble going in that deeply sedated, and Eames might gamble but never in the dreamshare -- and Cobb hadn't discussed things with the team that he really should have done, but at least now he was _happy_. Genuinely thrilled to be back with his children. Eames would never have worked with him again, even if Cobb hadn't willingly retired and Eames hadn't been forced out of working in the dreamshare, but at least the risks they had taken, the trouble they had gone through for Cobb had been worth it. Far better than if he had found fatherhood did not suit him, or boredom had driven him back into the underworld of extraction.

Ariadne was pleased to be visiting, Cobb was obviously glad to have her here, and their conversation was animated and amiable, but Eames didn't get the feeling Cobb would be sweeping the girl up in his arms and snogging her breathless. Nor was she likely to be sneaking into his bedroom that night. They seemed to have slipped back into the easy camaraderie they'd had during the Fischer job, only without the watchfulness and worry on Ariadne's part and without the guilt and defensiveness on Cobb's part.

Arthur seemed more contented than actively excited to be spending time with Cobb. He was smiling quite a bit, though. Eames was too tired and too watchful to fully join in the conversation, but he enjoyed watching Arthur enjoy himself. Even though there was still that little niggling bit of jealousy kicking around in the back of his head that he doubted he would ever be able to shake completely. After all, Arthur had been Cobb's point man far longer than he'd been with Eames. Even though Eames thought that he needed Arthur more than Cobb ever had. Well, perhaps a little.

Not that this was a good thing, of course. And thinking of himself as _more_ needy than Cobb had used to be... well, that made it even worse.

Honestly, Eames thought that Cobb was just glad to have people around to talk to who had actually gone through puberty. As much as he clearly loved being with and caring for his children, there was only so much a man could take and a little adult interaction could not possibly have been amiss.

Phillipa and James were unusually polite at the dining table, Eames thought, but he didn't have a lot of experience with children to base this assessment on. Little Phillipa actually tried to engage Eames in conversation twice, but both times he lost the thread partway through, and so she just smiled at him, patted his hand, and turned to Ariadne, who was on her other side. Eames supposed he should have felt embarrassed and depressed by this, but really he was just relieved. James was the more noisy of the two, bouncing in his seat, waving his fork about, and jabbering at Arthur in his piping voice.

As soon as they were done eating, Cobb sent the children off to play. Phillipa shot Eames an inquisitive look, but took the hint when he smiled and shook his head faintly. He really was too tired to join them, and besides, the others had had plenty of time to talk about him behind his back. While he didn't begrudge them that, knowing that they were doing it while he was off being entertained by the kiddies... well, it was a bit hard on the old ego. Which had already taken quite a bruising in the past month.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asked him as Ariadne jumped up to help Cobb clear the dishes off the table. They had eaten in the dining area, where there was an amazing panoramic view of the sunset out the wrap-around windows, but Eames felt he wasn't properly appreciative of this beauty. All he could think about was how much it would hurt to go through one of those large plate glass windows, how cold it would feel to bleed out in the thick green grass.

"Fine," he replied, then, because Arthur gave him that _look_ , the one that said he wasn't buying the bullshit Eames was selling, he amended. "Tired and a bit touchy." He shrugged, lowering his gaze, though he didn't tug his wrist from Arthur's hand. "I'll be okay."

"Do you want to go to bed now?"

He shook his head stubbornly. Yes, he wanted to go to bed. Wanted to curl up under the covers with Arthur, the curtains drawn, breathing in the familiar scent of the other man, soaking in his warmth.... But he'd already robbed Arthur of _so much time_. An entire month at this point. More than that, in fact, because Arthur had spent a week searching for him initially.

Anyway, there were Cobb and Ariadne, coming back in with wine and glasses, and it would be rude to leave now. Eames supposed that he could offer to go to bed alone, but that wouldn't fly. Even if Arthur allowed it, which Eames strongly suspected he wouldn't, Eames wouldn't enjoy it. He would just lay there in the dark, feeling forlorn and afraid. This, he already knew from past experience. Hell, it would be even worse now, in an unfamiliar house, a new bed.

So that was not an option. He _wanted_ to go to bed, wanted it desperately. But Arthur was always giving over things _he_ wanted to do because Eames couldn't do them. The least Eames could do now was indulge him in this. It was something that Eames _could_ do, even if he might not necessarily want to.

Arthur gave him a narrow look, as though he were reading Eames' face and was aware of everything that had just gone through his mind. Eames tried to school his expression, tried to look convincing, but that seemed to make things even worse.

But then Cobb handed them each a wineglass and he and Ariadne rejoined them at the table, so Arthur evidently decided to let the matter ride. They had a nice, intimate little enclave here, in the dining area. Eames could hear the children squealing down the hall, and the sun was descending in a blaze of glory outside. Outside, where there were trees and flowers and green growing things. Nothing like the dank dungeons he had died in so many times. Nothing could have been further from his memories, in fact.

Eames was still exhausted and anxious but slowly a feeling of peace, of near contentment was slipping over him. It wasn't bad being here. It was good. Maybe not as good as being in their own little flat, just him and Arthur, but it was more healthy. And both Cobb and Ariadne seemed genuinely happy he was here. He knew that Arthur was happy to be here.

How could he begrudge any of them this?

"I'm really glad you guys are here," Cobb said softly, his fingers blunt and broad where he toyed with the stem of his wineglass. Eames felt as though he had said this before already, but maybe that had been Ariadne. "All of you, I'm glad you could visit."

"Even though the two of us sort of invited ourselves?" Arthur asked, smirking into his drink.

Cobb smiled back and shook his head, his expression soft and fond. "Hey, the minute Ariadne suggested you might be joining her, I was all about that. I just didn't think..." he faltered and glanced at Eames, his eyes darkening slightly. "I just didn't think I'd be seeing you so soon."

Eames sipped his wine, the taste bitter on his tongue, but he knew where Cobb was coming from. Hell, he was only here through sheer force of will, and because he knew that he _needed_ to be here. If it had been a matter of choice, of what he was _comfortable_ with... well, then Cobb would have been waiting quite a while longer.

Eames still wasn't sure whether he wanted to be here, but he knew that it was the right thing. The flat had been a safe haven, somewhere that it was just him and Arthur, and sometimes Ariadne. But he had been stagnating there. Up to a certain point it had been necessary, to rebuild his sense of safety, his sense of _himself_ , of his place in the world. But once he was doing better.... Well, as painful and terrifying as it was, he needed to seek out new interactions, to prove to himself that he could meet new people and see old friends and be okay.

And where better to start than with Cobb and his children?

Eames knew that Cobb was "safe", that the man would never deliberately hurt him. Being negligent and selfish during the Fischer job was one thing, but Cobb had been desperate then, and things were different now. There was no more dreamshare, no more running from villains with guns. Now it was just Cobb, here at home, being a daddy and getting back to real world architecture.

And as for the children, the worst Eames might fear from them would be that he might get accidentally kicked in the shin in a moment of playful enthusiasm. Those two were sweet and pure of heart; that might sound trite, but that didn't make it any less true.

All of this was what Eames needed right now. To meet new people but to be able to trust them _completely_.

As well, a new place to stay for a while couldn't be amiss. As much as he had grown to love the flat Saito had gotten for them, that he had been sharing with Arthur, it had also been a cage, a ever-shrinking square of claustrophobia. Like he had told Arthur, there had been good memories there, but also bad. And Eames felt that he might be able to become himself a little more if he was somewhere new. Somewhere that the corners didn't remind him of being a huddled pile of panic and blind fear. Somewhere that he could walk in and out through doors, instead of remaining inside, trapped by his own insecurity and fear.

A sudden pressure around his wrist shook him from his introspection, and he glanced at Arthur, becoming aware that he had just sort of drifted out of the conversation. No one seemed to notice, even though he knew that they had to have done. No one seemed to mind, and he couldn't be sure whether that was real or faked. Arthur was talking to Cobb about his latest job -- and it was an actual job, with a paycheck, taxes withheld, delivered to his employers on paper -- while Ariadne poured herself more wine.

But Arthur's hand remained steady, firm but gentle around Eames' wrist, and even though he was looking away from him, looking at Cobb, Eames knew that he had as much of Arthur's attention as Cobb had.

Eames wished that he could say or do something reassuring, something _real_ , wanted to be the man he had _used_ to be, but it was no good wishing for impossible things. And so he sat silently and sipped at his wine. It was making him feel sleepy and flushed even though he'd yet to finish the one glass, and that was yet another example of just how _pathetic_ he was now, how far he had fallen. Time was he could have downed an entire bottle and been ready for more. Tipsy, probably quite drunk, but definitely having a good time. Not ready to crawl into bed.

"I should probably go and check on the kids," Cobb was saying when Eames started paying attention to the flow of conversation again. Their host set aside his wineglass and rose. "It's not usually a good sign when they're this quiet for this long."

Ariadne snickered, but that might have been the wine. Her cheeks were nearly as pink as they had been when she'd gotten out of the shower, and Eames eyed her with some amusement.

"We should probably get to bed soon," Arthur said, squeezing Eames' wrist lightly. He seemed to be talking to Cobb though, and it was Cobb who paused and glanced from one of them to the other.

"Can you stay up long enough for dessert?"

"Of course." Eames tried to look obstinate, aware that he was probably coming off more sulky than anything else. The _children_ wouldn't have as early a bedtime as he would, if Arthur got his way. Not that Eames was all that confident in his ability to stay up much past dessert. Even if it was served with coffee.

Ariadne made a noise of approval into her wineglass and Eames decided that he needed to try to stay awake as long as possible. If Ariadne was getting soused, then she needed an eye kept on her, even though he'd already mostly come to the conclusion that there wasn't anything more than friendship between her and Cobb.

He'd been wrong in the past, after all. He certainly never would have thought that he'd end up with Arthur. In bed, or in... other ways.

Cobb exited, and after a moment Eames heard delighted squeals and high pitched giggles coming from down the hall somewhere. He didn't hear Cobb's voice raised, however, so his kids couldn't have been getting into _too_ much trouble.

"I'm going to go and start some coffee," Arthur said, as though he knew what Eames had been thinking earlier. He did that so often that Eames had stopped finding it unnerving. Mostly. He didn't think the he had used to be so predictable, so easy to read. But then, Arthur had never before known him as well as he had gotten to know him in the past month.

In return, he knew Arthur better now than he had before, Eames had to admit. He'd found depths to the man that he might have suspected but never would have thought he'd be privy to. And everything that he discovered made him respect Arthur more, had him more convinced that he was in the right place. However it had happened that the two of them had fallen into this relationship, there was nowhere else Eames could have ever wanted to be.

His wrist felt cold when Arthur released it, but he had no reason to call Arthur back to him. And coffee did sound good. He was too wobbly from the wine -- and who knew that turning into such a great pussy would evidently affect him physically as well as mentally and emotionally -- so he couldn't get up and join Arthur in the kitchen. That would have been rude to do to Ariadne anyway.

Speaking of Ariadne, no sooner had Arthur vanished into the kitchen than the girl in question was plopping herself into his lap.

"Um, hello," Eames said, mildly surprised, as she slung her arms around his neck. She was warm and she still smelled fresh and flowery from her shower. It felt good to have her solid and affectionate on his thighs, grounding him a little, although he had to wonder just how much she'd had to drink.

"Thank you for coming with me, Eames," Ariadne said, kissing him soundly on one cheek. He got a strong whiff of wine and smirked crookedly. She really was a lightweight, both literally and figuratively. "I wasn't sure you'd be able to."

"Neither was I," Eames replied, hoping that Arthur would hurry with that coffee; he thought that Ariadne could use some of it. If she was snuggly like this, then he and Arthur definitely couldn't leave her alone with Cobb and go to bed. "All the way here, in fact."

"You did wonderfully," Ariadne gushed, and Eames could almost have laughed at her deliberate intensity. But he _couldn't_ because he found that he was actually a little choked up by the emotion in her and the answering emotion she called up in him.

"Ariadne." Arthur sounded fond and only slightly exasperated, as he reappeared and reached down, lifting the girl bodily off of Eames and setting her on her feet. "Not in front of the children."

Ariadne opened her mouth, presumably to protest, but at that moment James and Phillipa came rocketing back into the dining room, giggling and making a beeline for the kitchen.

"Dessert, dessert, dessert!" James cheered gleefully, his golden hair flying. Eames noticed that he was wearing a different shirt than he'd had on directly after dinner, and thought that maybe the kids had been getting into a bit of mischief after all.

Cobb followed at a more leisurely pace, an indulgent smile softening his face. "Let's go have dessert in the kitchen," he suggested, waving a hand in that direction. "Is that coffee I smell?" he added as Arthur released Ariadne and reached to give Eames a hand up.

"I brewed a pot," Arthur said, shooing Ariadne before him and ushering Eames out of the dining area as expertly as Cobb had herded his children before him. "You said we were having chocolate cake...?"

Cobb nodded, and he was smiling so broadly that Eames was _glad_ that he'd managed to make the trip. And not just for Ariadne's sake.

Also? Chocolate cake sounded really good.

***

Not surprisingly, once Ariadne was done with her dessert, all the traveling and the wine caught up with her despite the sugar and caffeine she'd just had. She was yawning widely as she declared her intent to go to bed.

"Can't believe I'm the first one to cave," she grouched, but her eyes were practically sliding closed as she said it and she looked adorably sleepy.

"Eames and I will be headed for bed soon," Arthur put in, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly.

"And it's nearly the kids' bedtime," Cobb added, resulting in a chorus of complaints. "Our guests are going to bed," he reasoned with them. "So we'll go to bed too, I'll read you each a story, and then we'll _all_ get an early start in the morning, okay?"

Phillipa sighed heavily, but didn't argue. James whined a little, his words unintelligible through the damp cloth Cobb was using to wipe the chocolate off his mouth, but he was at least as heavy eyed as Ariadne was.

"Sorry we're all so knackered," Eames apologized, even though he was feeling incredibly relieved, internally, that he wasn't going to be the first to fold. And here he'd thought that _he_ would drag the entire party down. But things seemed to be winding to a natural end, and as Cobb had said, they could get going early the next day.

Cobb shrugged, moving to cover the remainder of the dessert -- a chocolate cake that Cobb had actually _baked_ , which fact had shocked the hell out of all three of them, along with the fact that it had been delicious. "It's not a big deal. You flew for over ten hours to get here, and you're still on Paris time. Sleep in as long as you like, in fact. Get up when you're ready to get up."

"That was the plan," Arthur said with a grin that made Eames' heart jump. It was a little bit ridiculous, having a physical reaction to the sight and reality of Arthur... and yet to feel less would have been even more ridiculous. Arthur was worth a few skipping heartbeats, at the very least.

"Sleep well, you guys," Cobb said, giving Ariadne a one-armed hug that was so awkward that Eames felt the last of his doubt completely banished. In absolutely no way did Cobb have any designs on the girl. He had once courted and won Mallory Miles, for God's sake. If he'd been trying to woo Ariadne he'd have been a lot more smooth about it.

Ariadne rolled her eyes -- perhaps at Cobb, perhaps at Eames and Arthur -- and hugged Cobb back. "You too," she said, and then she toddled off to her bedroom. And Eames was certain that she didn't have any feelings for Cobb other than friendship. No more than she felt for Arthur and Eames, especially after watching over the two of them for the past month. And that was good as well.

Of course, it kind of meant that he and Arthur didn't actually have to be here. But as Phillipa stood on tiptoe to kiss him goodnight, after similarly bussing her Uncle Arthur, Eames couldn't bring himself to regret making the trip.

It was good for him, on so many levels, for so many different reasons. And he thought that it was probably good for Cobb as well. He knew that Cobb and his kids were glad to be getting to see Arthur again. It had been selfish of him to keep Arthur all to himself in that flat in Paris -- even though Arthur had been staying with him by choice.

Eames and Arthur headed for their bedroom as well, leaving it to Cobb to shut off the lights behind them. They weren't in any hurry, after all, because they were sharing a bathroom with Ariadne and would needed to leave her time to complete her nightly ablutions before they could perform their own.

Their room was spacious, with clean lines and smooth wooden walls, but it seemed closer, more cozy now that the sun had gone down and it was dark. Eames approved. Very small spaces made him feel trapped and claustrophobic, but areas that were too wide, too open, held too much potential for danger; or at least so his battered instincts warmed him. He liked being able to see everything around him, even though he knew that he was perfectly safe in Cobb's home, perfectly safe in the company of his Arthur.

"Arthur, I...."

Before he could finish what he'd been going to say, not that he really had any idea what he'd _been_ going to say, Arthur had drawn him into his arms and was holding him close, holding him tight. It felt good, made him feel less likely to shake himself to pieces.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur murmured in his ear. This embrace was not all that different from the one they had shared when they had first entered the room, and like before, Eames could hear water running in the bathroom. He wasn't going to let it distract him this time, though.

"Good," he replied, almost surprised to find that it was true. "Better now that it's just the two of us in here."

He felt incredibly sappy as he said this, but that couldn't be helped. It was the truth and he wanted Arthur to know his thoughts, without any doubts on the matter.

Perhaps there hadn't been any doubts after all, he thought, as Arthur's lips pressed warm and comforting against his jaw. He lowered his head, resting his forehead on Arthur's shoulder, partially for comfort, partially because he was really sleepy.

"How are _you_ feeling?" he mumbled into Arthur's shirt, enjoying the feeling of Arthur's hands moving in slow strokes over his back. It was more sensual than sexual for him in his exhausted state, but he didn't think that Arthur was going to mind that he was too tired for sex.

"Good," Arthur replied softly, and Eames thought that he meant it.

He raised his head and Arthur's lips tracked hot and damp over his cheekbone, coming to press against his own. They kissed, warm and a little wet, and Eames was just starting to think that he might be able to get in the mood after all, despite his weariness, when the bathroom door cracked open without so much as a knock -- or if there had been one, he'd missed hearing it.

"Oops," Ariadne said, sounding anything but repentant. Her eyes were shining when they both glanced over at her, filed with amusement and a warmth that Eames suspected was more arousal than inebriation. Bringing his conjecture from earlier to the forefront of his mind, and more than likely verifying it. The naughty, lusty little minx.

"Ariadne," Arthur said, and Eames hadn't heard that chiding tone used on anyone other than himself before, he didn't think. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all." She smirked at them, and Eames realized that Arthur's hand was on his arse, and that he hadn't moved it, even though Ariadne was _right there_. Not that Eames cared, but he would have thought that _Arthur_ would have done.

All this time and he was still, continually underestimating Arthur.

"Good night, you guys," Ariadne said, and she _winked_.

Without even looking, Eames knew that Arthur had just rolled his eyes. He, himself, though, smirked back and licked his lips. "Sleep well, little one."

Ariadne's eyes flashed; though whether in annoyance at the nickname or further horniness, he couldn't tell.

She said nothing further, though, just retreated, leaving the bathroom door ajar and the light on. Her own door, on the far side of the bathroom, clicked shut, and Arthur turned his head, licking at Eames' cheekbone delicately.

"Shall we go and brush our teeth?" he asked, squeezing his hand. Which was still on Eames' arse.

"You're giving me mixed signals here," Eames rumbled, slanting his head so that his mouth slotted together perfectly with Arthur's. Their tongues tangled and Eames wished, really _wished_ that he had the energy to get up to something, but he really didn't.

"Specify your meaning," Arthur murmured against his lips, his breath warm and tingly, tasting of coffee and chocolate. Eames traced the line of Arthur's lower lip, then shivered as Arthur's tongue emerged to tease his own.

"Do we prepare to sleep or to screw?" Eames asked, too tired to couch it in more elegant terms.

Fortunately, Arthur seemed to be amused by this, laughing lightly into Eames' mouth, then pulling back. His eyes were as bright as Ariadne's, and a million times more alluring as far as Eames was concerned. "Let's just get ready for bed," he said, pecking a quick kiss at the corner of Eames' lips. "And then see what we want to get up to in said bed."

"I'll warn you," Eames said, after they had changed into their pyjamas and made their way into the bathroom, sharing the sink as they brushed their teeth, "I'm probably too tired to get up to anything too fun."

Arthur grinned at him, toothpaste on his lips, and said something inarticulate as he brushed with both efficiency and thoroughness. Eames translated it easily enough, though; _"Not every sexual touch has to culminate in orgasm."_

Arthur had proved this to him often enough in the past, and Eames could admit that this pat phrase was true, even though he'd never have thought so the first time Arthur had uttered it. But that didn't mean that he didn't want to provide Arthur with more than just a few kisses and a bit of arse groping in return for all his patience during their trip from Paris to America.

"Besides," Arthur added, once he had finished brushing, rinsed, and spit, "I'm pretty wiped out myself."

This time when they kissed, Arthur's mouth was minty fresh, and Eames really _wished_ that he wasn't so exhausted, that they both weren't, and that he wasn't aware that just to the other side of the bathroom door closest to them, Ariadne was in bed, very possibly touching herself to the thought of the two of them touching....

Speaking of which. "So, now what do you think about--"

"I don't," Arthur cut him off, again, as they made their way back into the bedroom. "And I'd rather you didn't either.'

Eames grinned broadly, climbing into bed and under the covers as Arthur crossed to turn off the overhead light, leaving on the bedside lamp. Eames rather wished that they were both nude, but that seemed to be potentially rude, here in Cobb's house as they were.

He and Arthur had already had a discussion concerning Ariadne and the potential for jealousy there -- or, rather, the fact that there was no need. Arthur had admitted to stealing a kiss from Ariadne during the Fischer job, and Eames didn't mind. At that point he'd had no claim over Arthur; in fact, they'd still been picking at each other as much as they worked together as a team. And Eames might be insecure and damaged now, uncertain of his own worth, but he could tell there was nothing more between Arthur and Ariadne than friendship. The same as it was between himself and Ariadne.

She was a beautiful little girl, and she and Arthur might have made a disgustingly adorable couple, but that wasn't what Arthur wanted, and he had made that so clear to Eames that he had no room to doubt it. Even if he still wasn't quite sure why Arthur was with _him_.

"Don't forget to lock the door," he called, even though he didn't think they'd be getting up to much more than some cuddling and a bit of snogging. He could clearly recall Cobb's thoughts on the matter, and while he didn't think that the children would be gauche enough to go wandering into the guest rooms in the middle of the night, it would be best not to take the chance.

Arthur grinned and did so, then moved to join Eames in bed. They gravitated toward one another immediately, and Eames gave thought to the fact that they had left the lamp on, but he wasn't going to move to put it out now. He was grateful that of all the debilitating phobias that his captors had inflicted on him, a fear of the dark had not been one of them. He already felt enough like a child sometimes.

Of course, right now he rather liked having the light on because it meant that he could see Arthur, could dwell on how pretty and how perfect he was. Being here, in Cobb's house, out of their own familiar flat in Pairs... it gave him a new outlook on Arthur. And he was finding it more and more difficult to believe his own luck, that Arthur was willing to have anything to do with him, much less... what they had.

Whatever that might be...?

"Arthur...."

"Mm?" Arthur's brows rose. They were lying side by side on the bed, sharing a pillow, hands clasped between their chests, but not touching anywhere else. Arthur looked tired, his lids heavy and bags beneath his eyes, but he didn't actually look sleepy. His gaze was too bright and clear for that. He almost needed a shave already, and Eames wanted to press in, to kiss and caress, to bring them both off in the hopes that it would help them to sleep. And yet, he felt that there was something more important, a subject that needed to be addressed.

Seeing Cobb, seeing the look in the man's eyes, recognizing all over again what he had become, and recognizing almost for the first time just _how much_ Arthur had given up for him... it had raised a boatload of questions and insecurities in Eames. And he didn't really want to talk about this, but he felt as though he _had_ to.

"It's... it's not misplaced pity, is it?" he asked, giving voice to this horrible, painful idea. "Or, worse, misguided guilt?" Because even though he certainly didn't blame Arthur for not finding him more quickly after he'd called him for help, he knew that Arthur tended to blame himself.

"Absolutely not," Arthur answered, so quickly and so firmly that Eames couldn't but believe him. He frowned, but he didn't seem offended or angry at Eames. His eyes were harder than they had been, his beautiful lips going flat and firm, and his fingers tightened on Eames' hands. "Don't even think that, Eames."

"But." Eames licked his lips, gratified by the flicker of arousal he saw in Arthur's gaze, but now was not the time for that. "Arthur, darling, I'm just a shadow of a man now. There's... there's hardly anything left of me."

Arthur's brows rose even higher, then crashed down in a fierce glare. "Is that really how you see yourself?" he said, and his voice was sharp, harsh. And this time Eames thought that Arthur actually _was_ angry at him, in a manner of speaking. "Of all the wrong-headed, foolish--" He cut himself off and drew in a deep breath.

Eames was aware that he was simply staring at Arthur with his jaw slack, but he honestly didn't know where this had come from. He had considered that he was merely stating a fact. Where all this vehemence had come from... he could only wait to find out.

"Eames, you withstood tortures that would have destroyed a lesser man," Arthur said, and he had levered up onto one elbow, leaning over Eames, a hand pressing to his chest. Eames remained where he was, rolling slightly onto his back, and waiting passively to hear what Arthur had to say. "You've recovered more quickly than anyone could have had any right to expect. You only see what you've lost, but you should be looking at what you still have, what you've gained back. It's absolutely stunning."

Eames pursed his lips, running this diatribe through his mind, feeling it out for flaws, for untruths. But it was fairly accurate, as well as being fervently meant. He hadn't looked at things that way, but trust Arthur, the best point man in the business, to have considered it from every angle.

"You... you're amazing," Arthur said simply. And he said it as though he meant it.

"Too bad you didn't tell me that back when I believed it," Eames quipped, unable to face the compliment head-on, unwilling to take it at its face value.

Arthur snorted. "Are you kidding? If I'd said it then, you'd never have let me hear the end of it." Then his expression softened into something so open and honest that it hurt Eames to look at it. And yet he couldn't look away. Arthur was always beautiful, but even more so right now than usual. "I meant it, Eames. No misplaced pity here. I consider that I'm lucky that _you_ want _me_ to stay with you."

Eames blinked. "Now, that's just patently ridiculous," he scoffed, trying to ignore the way his heart was thumping against his breastbone.

"Are you implying that I don't know my own feelings in the matter?" Arthur asked, his voice dangerously smooth, one brow rising in a high arch.

"Not at all," Eames hurried to deny, then Arthur was grinning at him, and leaned down to claim a quick but delicious kiss. Eames wasn't quite sure where the conversation had gone, but he already felt better.

"I still don't..." he said, when Arthur had done kissing him breathless, because apparently he never knew when to leave well enough alone, "I still don't understand why you're with me, though."

Arthur boggled at him a moment, then sighed with so much exasperation that it almost felt like an assault. Eames was torn between laughing and taking offense. In the end he did nothing, simply waited for a response.

"Eames." Arthur's eyes were sharp and intense as he met Eames' gaze, and he felt his stomach twist in sudden anxiety. "Do I really have to say it?"

And that was the question, wasn't it.

They had skirted the issue so many times. They proved it with their daily actions rather than speaking it with words. Arthur had said nearly everything _else_ to Eames, and they would sometimes use that particular four-letter word as though in jest. That was all that Eames was comfortable with, and he was suddenly terrified that Arthur _would_ say it, would put it out there, stark and unequivocal. It wasn't that he didn't know it. It wasn't that he didn't want the reassurance. But there was something about hearing the other man say it that scared him more than anything that had been done to him in the dreamshare. He didn't even know why. It wasn't rational, but there it was.

"No," he said, and was his voice really that hoarse, that desperate? "No, don't say it." He reached up, tracing a well-shaped cheekbone. "You don't need to say it." He didn't think that he imagined the relief in Arthur's eyes, even though the other man hid it well. So maybe he wasn't the only one who had problems with the idea of it being said aloud.

"I would have," Arthur whispered, and then bent to kiss him. Eames wrapped his arms around Arthur's shoulders, holding on tight, holding him close.

A notion occurred to Eames, and he took hold of it, calling his courage to the fore before it could desert him. "Do... do you want me to say...?"

"No." Arthur raised his head a little, and shook it. Then his brows crawled upward. "Do you, though?"

Eames scowled. "Of course!" he snapped, stung. "What the hell do you think the last few weeks have been? Casual sex?"

Arthur let out a startled laugh, his expression breaking open so beautifully that Eames couldn't possibly maintain his ill humour. He wanted to be angry at Arthur for not _knowing_.... But maybe Arthur was as insecure as Eames was, in his own ways, for his own reasons.

"You're amazing too, you know," he murmured, because Arthur really needed to hear that, and he might not actually be aware of that fact. "At least as much so as you say I am, and even more."

Arthur, bless his foolish, stubborn heart, looked a bit skeptical, but at least he didn't argue. He bent and proceeded to kiss Eames even more breathless. That was better than any amount of speaking those three words could ever have been. And more productive as well.

Especially once it turned out that they really weren't too tired to get one another off, slow, intense, and ever so much more satisfying than simply saying it could have been.

Then, even better, once they were done Eames discovered that despite the caffeine and the travel and the new bed, he actually was able to sleep after all. And that might have just as much to do with being at peace mentally and emotionally as it did his physical exhaustion.

Best of all, though, was the way that Arthur wrapped him up in his arms as though he would never let go. Eames never wanted him to let go, awake or asleep.

***

When Eames awoke, the clock on the bedside table told him it was eight o'clock in the morning, while his internal clock -- as well as his watch, which he had yet to reset -- informed him that it was five in the evening.

He yawned, stretching extravagantly, and when doing so failed to rouse Arthur, Eames figured that he must need the sleep.

Eames, however, needed some tea.

He extricated himself from Arthur's arms with a slight internal tug, but he was feeling restless and wide awake. As much as he usually liked to lay in bed, resting in Arthur's embrace, enjoying the other man's warmth and scent while he slept, this morning wasn't going to be one of those times.

He washed up, got dressed, and Arthur was still sound asleep, snoring ever so slightly where he had sprawled in the warm spot Eames had left. It was tempting, the desire to crawl back in with him, but Eames knew better.

He was out of the bedroom and padding barefoot down the hall toward the kitchen before he realized that _he was not scared to do so_.

It shouldn't have been such a big deal. He would have liked if it hadn't been such a big deal. And yet, it really, really was a huge thing, a hurdle cleared, a step forward he hadn't been expecting when he had decided that day in their Parisian flat that they ought to come and visit Cobb.

He could smell freshly brewed coffee, and so he wasn't surprised to enter the kitchen and find Cobb already up. He figured that fathers of small children generally rose early. There was no sign of the kids, and Eames didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed. They'd probably show soon enough, so he ought to be grateful for this moment of quiet. Cobb was obviously savoring it.

Cobb smiled at him over his steaming coffee and Eames smiled back, easily, automatically.

"Good morning," Cobb said, in a way that made it sound as though it really _was_ a good morning. And it was certainly bright and sunny outside, the golden light flowing in though the windows like molten honey. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well, thank you," Eames replied, and he was so glad that it was true. Honestly, he'd been expecting a night of bad dreams or perhaps sleeplessness, after all the stress of travel and being in a strange bed. But evidently being in Arthur's embrace, after having talked their way around a mutual declaration of their completely unexpected yet undeniable feelings for one another, had been just what he needed to set his poor battered mind at rest.

"Do you want me to make you some tea?" Cobb offered politely, obviously ready to rise and do just that, even though he'd equally obviously only started on his mug of coffee.

Eames shook his head. "If you have the makings, just direct me and I'll do it. I'm damaged but not broken."

Cobb grimaced, probably as much at the faint bitterness of Eames' tone -- which he had tried and failed to quell -- as at the blunt declaration itself. "Of course I have the makings," he said, and he grinned, only a little forced. "Arthur emailed me a list."

Eames couldn't help but chuckle at that, because, really, he should have expected it. "Oh, good, none of that Lipton yellow label crap," he remarked, and this brought the honest smile back to Cobb's face. Eames was glad to see it. He always felt terrible whenever anyone got downhearted on his account.

Once his tea was prepared -- and it must have been a very thorough, very precise list Arthur had sent, not that Eames doubted this, because he almost felt as though he were back in his kitchen at home in Paris -- Eames settled down to sit at the table with Cobb.

"How did _you_ sleep?" he belatedly remembered to ask.

"Pretty good," Cobb said, and he was almost done with his coffee, was toying with the mug, watching Eames with a strangely intent stare. "Up until the point that James crawled in bed with me. I think he's still suffering separation anxiety. Which is completely understandable, since he lost both his parents at almost the same time. He still doesn't really get the concept of death, still doesn't really know what it means that Mom is gone and never coming back."

Eames nodded, feeling his gut clench in sympathy, for James mostly, but for all of the Cobbs. "It's tough," he said, sipping his tea, "At that age, to have someone who is your entire world just _go away_ , and you don't know why. You start to think it could happen to anyone, at any time. It's no wonder he's climbing in bed with you."

Cobb nodded, his expression sad and thoughtful, but he didn't ask why it sounded as though Eames was speaking from personal experience, for which Eames was grateful.

"Well." Eames frowned into his mug, following that thought. "It _could_ happen to anyone you love, at any time. But those of us who know that also know to do our best to ignore that possibility."

Cobb wordlessly reached over and clasped his hand around Eames'. And he didn't mind. Of their group, they were the two with the most in common where the dreamshare was concerned. Well, and perhaps Saito, who had also spent a lifetime lost in limbo. Eames' torture in the dreamshare wasn't the same as Cobb's two sojourns there had been, but Cobb could understand better than someone like Arthur or Ariadne, what it was like to be trapped in dreaming, unable to escape at will. Even though the first time that Cobb had been trapped in limbo, he'd at least been there with his beloved wife.

But then, look at the disaster that _that_ had ended in.

"I'm all right," he said, even though his lips felt numb as he said it. He raised his mug with his free hand and took a bracing sip of hot tea. It helped him to remember that he was awake. He was here, now, and not trapped in the dreamshare. No one here was going to hurt him or try to kill him. Those that he cared about were safe as well. Maybe not always, but at least on this lovely sunny morning.

"It's not something you can dwell on," Cobb said, and it sounded more as though he was thinking aloud than lecturing Eames, which kept Eames from feeling resentful, because, really, who in their circle was _less_ qualified to offer advice than Cobb? "You can't, or you'll make yourself ill from the fear and anxiety. You know?"

Eames nodded, because he did know, and Cobb released his hand, then went over to refresh his coffee. Eames wondered that no one else was up yet, but it was kind of nice, sitting here in the kitchen with Cobb. It felt... comfortable.

"Eames," Cobb said as he seated himself again. "I wanted to thank you."

"For what?" Eames asked, because Cobb had already thanked them for coming, and from the serious tone of his voice, he clearly meant something more than that. He never could have expected the reply that he got, though.

"For taking care of Arthur."

Eames blinked, staring at Cobb and reading nothing but complete sincerity in his clear blue eyes.

"Cobb," he said, speaking carefully, both hands wrapped around his mug to still their trembling. He couldn't do much about his voice, though. "In case you completely missed the memo, it's been _Arthur_ that's been taking care of _me_ all this time."

Cobb smiled slightly, shaking his head. "I've never seen Arthur happier," he stated easily, and his gaze was fixed intently on Eames. "In all the time I've known him. I've never seen him so happy, so relaxed. You're good for him, Eames. Being with you is the best thing that could have happened to him."

Eames could feel heat flare in the apples of his cheeks, at the tips of his ears, and he lowered his head, suddenly, unaccountably shy. He... couldn't really refute what Cobb was saying to him, but it was hard to hear it just outright stated like that. It was hard to believe that it was true.

"He's just well rested because he hasn't been able to _do_ anything," he mumbled, wishing that he had more tea, but unable to get up and make more. His knees were weak, and he felt pinned in place by Cobb's stare. "Because he's been spending all his time watching out for me."

"Be that as it may," Cobb, at least, didn't try to refute this fact, "He's still happier now. And you can't say that it's only because he's rested. That happiness is on you, Eames."

Eames shifted uncomfortably, his mouth twisting to the side. After their conversation the night before, he couldn't deny that he and Arthur were a couple. A strange, mismatched, completely unexpected couple, but a couple nonetheless.

"I don't know." He swallowed tightly, licking his lips. "I don't know why he.... I'm glad that he's happy, but I can't figure out... well... _why_. I'm useless. I can't even leave the house on my own, can't behave in a normal fashion around people." He shook his head vigorously, bit his lip hard enough to sting. "Worse than being useless, I'm actively a burden. Nightmares and neuroses and no one ever knows when something will set me off; not even me. I don't know _why_ Arthur is.... He could... he could do _so_ much better."

Cobb's face was hard and stern as he leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, hands clasped between his legs. At least he didn't try to reach for Eames this time. His brow was creased in a frown, but didn't seem angry; just determined.

"Okay," he said firmly. "First off, you are neither useless nor a burden, and if you don't know that, you should." He was squinting at Eames, which indicated that he meant what he was saying very seriously.

Before Eames could think of anything to say, Cobb continued. "But setting that aside for the moment, let me tell you this. Speaking from experience... don't ever doubt what you have. There were times, especially early in our relationship, when I wondered what Mal saw in me, why she was as in love with me as I was with her. And now that she's gone, it seems silly to have had those doubts. They ate up time that I could have spent just being _happy_ with her, happy that I was the one she wanted." He shook his head, hair falling over his brow, and he looked sad but somehow at peace with his memories. "Don't waste any time wondering why Arthur loves you, Eames; just be glad that you both feel the same way about each other."

Eames knew his knuckles were white around his mug, and he forced himself to loosen his grip. He was having trouble drawing a complete breath, though, and the clench around his lungs didn't seem likely to let up any time soon.

"Sorry," Cobb said, smiling at him a little hesitantly. "I know it's not any of my business. But I just.... Arthur's a good friend, and you're a friend too, and I want you both to be happy. You know?"

Eames nodded silently, because he had no words to say. Leave it to Cobb to haul out the word "love". It wasn't that Eames didn't know it. It wasn't that he didn't know that Arthur meant it. They were both completely aware. And it wasn't as though they were _allergic_ to saying it or anything. But it was such a small word for the huge feelings between them, and it was too often bandied about and misused. Eames didn't mind Cobb using it, but he blushed to think of Cobb saying the same thing to Arthur, talking about him.

At least now he could be sure that Cobb wasn't going to steal Arthur back away from him. And, even better, he and Arthur had Cobb's approval. He'd have been able to live without it, but it was nice to know that Cobb was happy for them.

Fortunately for his blood pressure, this was the point at which a sleepy James wandered into the kitchen seeking breakfast, closely followed by his older sister. So that was the end of that uncomfortable conversation. Eames was relieved, but at the same time he couldn't regret that they'd talked about the things that they had talked about. And he was especially glad to find out where Cobb stood.

Of course, it helped that Cobb stood firmly on the side of Eames and Arthur being together.

"I'm going to go and get Arthur up," he said, as Cobb began mixing enough pancake batter to feed the entire household, not just his kids. James was shy again, clinging to Cobb's leg, but Phillipa had greeted him with a pleasant, "Good morning, Uncle Eames," and was getting herself a glass of orange juice.

Cobb nodded, his expression pleasant but distracted. He and Eames had had a very involved -- if mildly disturbing -- conversation, but when his children were around, they were his primary focus.

As it should be.

"Phillipa, will you go and get your hairbrush," Eames heard Cobb saying as he made his way back down the hall toward the room he was sharing with Arthur. Her hair _was_ a bit messy this morning, Eames thought, but why should she be any different than the rest of them? He grinned, amused despite himself as he reached up to run a hand through at his own wayward locks.

And then he couldn't help but laugh aloud when he roused Arthur, and _his_ bed-head was even more out of control. Arthur gave him a disgruntled look, but couldn't help the grin that curled up the corners of his mouth at the sound of Eames' laughter.

"I'm glad we came," Arthur said. Which might have been something of a non sequitur, only it really, really wasn't. At all.

Eames smirked, crawling onto the mattress and kissing Arthur soundly, morning breath, crazy hair, squinty eyes, and all. "I am too," he said, knowing that the sincerity was clear to read in his voice. "There's pancakes for breakfast."

This time it was Arthur who laughed, his face crinkling into a delighted expression. And Eames realized with a start that he had _never_ seen Arthur this happy before the two of them had become... whatever they were.

So. Maybe Cobb was right after all.

Then he kind of lost that thread of thought, as Arthur's arms locked around his neck, dragging him down, and this time it was Arthur kissing him.

"Did I hear something about pancakes?"

They broke apart and stared at Ariadne in disbelief. She was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, already dressed, hair brushed, makeup done... and she was grinning as widely as she had done last night.

"Do you have no shame?" Eames asked, before Arthur could say anything.

She shook her head, her smile not faltering in the slightest. "None whatsoever," she replied, well, shamelessly. "Besides, you're the one who left the door open."

"You could have closed it," Arthur protested, and he was a little breathless, his cheeks very pink.

"Where's the fun in that?" Ariadne wanted to know.

"Oh, go and get some coffee," Eames told her. "And maybe if you're nice Phillipa will let you brush her hair."

Ariadne wrinkled her nose to indicate her feelings on that suggestion, proving that she had no desire to play surrogate mommy, but she departed the room as instructed.

Arthur sighed heavily and rolled into Eames' chest, hiding his face in his neck. "Are you sure you don't want to go and stay at my place _now_?"

Eames thought about it. He thought about a nice afternoon playing with the kids, about a warm and delicious dinner, about wine and dessert and kisses goodnight from Phillipa. He thought about Ariadne on the other side of the bathroom, and thought about morning coffee with Cobb. He also thought about Ariadne's newly developed habit of walking in without knocking -- she had always been so circumspect in Paris -- and the fact that there were Cobb and his children living in this house.

He thought about the fact that he was convinced Cobb had no designs on Ariadne, and also the fact that after their conversation this morning, if the man _had_ , he wouldn't have so much minded. And the fact that it really wasn't any of his business.

"Do you want to pack before or after we have pancakes?" he asked.

Arthur jerked back and up, staring at him in shock and no small amount of disbelief. Eames met his gaze steadily and offered as wide a smile as he could manage. He was ready to give this thing a try in the real world. Not locked away in their Paris flat. Not in the foreign shelter of Cobb's familial residence. He wanted to see Arthur's home in the States, and he wanted a hand in making it, at least in part, his own.

All of this and more, Arthur seemed to read in his eyes, and his stunned expression melted into one of pleasure, the happiness coming back to it.

"Definitely after," Arthur said, then proceeded to kiss Eames so thoroughly that he very nearly suggested giving breakfast a miss. But he could smell the delicious scent of cooking pancakes in the air, and they might better reserve their energies for once they'd gotten to Arthur's place. Besides, Eames wouldn't have put it past Ariadne to send one of the kids after them.

"Immediately after," he added though, in pursuit of specificity, reeling Arthur back in for another kiss.

"Cobb will be disappointed," Arthur murmured as they broke for breath.

"Cobb will understand," Eames informed him, and he was certain that it was true. "Besides, we're still going to be coming here to visit with him and the kids. We'll just... be headed back to your place at night, for sleep and for more carnal pursuits."

" _Our_ place," Arthur corrected, and his eyes were bright, his face shining.

Eames felt his own face light up, knew that Arthur could see it. But before he could open his mouth to say anything, Ariadne called down the hall.

"Hurry up, you guys! Or you get nothing!"

"Impossible," Eames murmured into the softness of Arthur's dimpled cheek. "I've already got everything."

Arthur groaned and punched him in the arm, but he did it lightly, and then he tumbled him into the sheets as though there _weren't_ pancakes waiting and children liable to burst into the room at any moment.

"You know... you know that I _do_ , right?" Arthur whispered, his arms tight around Eames' neck.

"Of course," he murmured back. He contemplated leaving it there, but he wasn't a total dick. "As do I."

And so far as grand declarations of love and devotion went, that was as much as either of them needed.

They were each of them all that the other needed. And always would be.

[end]


End file.
